


Truce in Reverse

by physiologyfan



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Adult Jean, Adult Marco, Adultery, Angst, Beach Town, Bodt's Boats, Bullying, Cheating, Coming of Age, Flashbacks, Fluff and Angst, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Jean has lots of tattoos, M/M, Marco sells boats, Minor Character Death, Minor Violence, Really Domestic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-03
Updated: 2016-04-06
Packaged: 2018-04-24 09:53:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 39,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4914949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/physiologyfan/pseuds/physiologyfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seventeen years ago Jean Kirstein let his small costal hometown of Jinae for good, to find somewhere he'd be accepted. Marco Bodt stayed behind and has been awaiting his return ever since. When Jean has to come back to Jinae to take care of his mother in her old age, it brings second chances for both him and Marco, no matter how bad their past together is. This is a story about mistakes, forgiveness, and a little bit of love of course.</p><p>"Jinae is much more to me than just a town. It's summer days on the docks, and nights on the beach. It's burgers at Springer's Diner. It's catching up with friends at the Saturday marketplace on Sina St. Those and so many other things make me stay, but growing up with my best friend and the love of my life…That's what makes it home."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Not Going Back

JEAN’S POV:

There’s something refreshing to the feeling I get around midnight or so on a weekend when the bar gets busy like this. So many people here, yet it’s so easy to see right through them as my eyes flit from one person to the next. I can practically separate the crowd into two distinct groups: those who are here to get laid, and those who are here to get drunk and distract themselves from the fact that they probably haven’t gotten laid in a while.

From my position behind the bar, I can just tell by their faces, the way they look at others as they walk by, and the way they look at me. I’m a bartender at a gay bar for two reasons only; to make enough money to pay for my shitty existence, and to catch some ass when the feeling is right. Although lately, the feeling has been right on pretty much every night I’m working. Even Eren has started joking with me that I’m going to have fucked all of our regular patrons by the end of the month.

He’s probably not far off. I mean I’m a grown man. I can do what I want, even if it means going home with every good-enough looking guy who notices me. And they _always _notice me.__

There’s no shame in knowing I’m hot. I’m a rebellious man’s dream: sides and bottom of my head shaved with shaggy, ashen-brown hair swept to the side up top, and tattoo sleeves lining my arms and trailing under the collar of my shirt, leading to the promise of more to be uncovered on my chest. I’m thirty-four, but I could probably pass for twenty-eight on a good day. And the low lighting in this shit-hole probably shaves off another two or three years. Lord knows how my face hasn’t aged tremendously, considering how cigarette smoke and booze soaked my life has become since I moved to the “Big City of Trost”. But hey, you won’t see me complaining, that’s for damn sure.

“Looks like PBR guy is back for more,” I hear Eren’s deep, raspy, baritone voice to my left. I glance up from the drink I’ve been working on while absorbed in my thoughts, and find the broad, overly frat-looking guy who basically took up permanent residence here last night while waiting for me to get off work, backwards cap and all. Let’s just say I cut my losses for the night and snuck out the back at the end of my shift.

“Ugh, fuck that guy. Why do we even serve that shit here? If he wants to relive his college days at thirty he should take his act over to Moe’s or something,” I grumble, handing the grateful customer in front of me his drink. It’s obvious he’s one of the ones who came here to get drunk and forget. Poor guy. Reminds me of myself when I’m alone at my apartment, knocking back whatever I was able to get on the cheap at the liquor store…I have _a lot _I need to forget.__

“Because ‘Milk Jug’ Moe’s isn’t gay,” Eren quips, pouring a few beers from the tap behind us. “Come on, he wants you. That makes him your responsibility now. Just throw him a pity-fuck and be on your way,” he teases mercilessly, elbowing me in the ribs. God I love Eren, and he’s the only real friend I have here in Trost, but he knows exactly how to push my buttons. We met accidently a year or two after I moved to the city, but we fell in together like we’d known each other our whole lives. We fight constantly, bickering about anything we can manage to get angry about. But that’s just a part of our dysfunctional friendship, and we never really mean it. 

“Uh-uh. If I’m fucking anyone tonight it’s going to be Mr. Vanilla Cranberry over there,” I douse his insult, nodding discretely over to the corner where a sleek, polished looking man is sitting, sipping on the drink I made him a little over ten minutes ago. I catch his gaze and he gives me a more-than-suggestive grin, and I shoot one back in response before returning my attention to Eren next to me.

“Damn he’s fine.” Eren chuckles, seeing our little exchange. I nod, remembering how strong his cheekbones looked and how full his lips were when he was here up close getting his drink. And I distinctly remember how nice his ass looked when he was walking away. Not to mention his eyes were that deep, dark brown color that I’ve always had a thing for. Eyes so dark you could lose yourself in them, yet they turn such a brassy hue when the light hits them. Eyes like Mar– …No, don’t go there Jean. Not tonight.

“Oh, it really is your lucky day. Little-Dick Landon just walked in too,” my tan friend points out with droplets of sarcasm leaking out of his voice. My eyes roll to the front entrance and there he is, trolleying a date with him like he’s won a prize. 

To make things a little more clear: Landon doesn’t actually have a little dick. He’s just another one of the guys here that I went home with one time, no big deal. Yet every time I’ve seen him since then, it puts me in a fowl mood. And since Eren can usually see right through me, I just told him it’s awkward seeing him again because it was a disappointing night (If you know what I mean). Then Eren coined him Little-Dick Landon and it stuck between the two of us. 

But once again, that’s not the guy’s real problem. In fact, he didn’t even have a problem. I had a wonderful night, and I know for a fact I rocked his world. It was the morning that fucked me up. With the sun shining in through his window right on him, I woke up to a perfect view of his face with adequate lighting for the first time. All I could see were damn _freckles _, matched with dark brown, almost black hair. It was too much, and my past practically clawed its way up my throat as I rushed to gather my things and get the hell out of there.__

It’s been seventeen years. I should be way over this by now. In fact, I should have already been over it before I even left Jinae and came here to start over my life. And yet, every time he walks in here looking like that, my heart seizes painfully and I have to disguise it under the disgust for myself that surfaces as well.

So like I’ve been doing for countless years now, I distract myself with the thought of going home with another man tonight. Preferably Mr. Vanilla Cranberry, which I’ve decided I’ll refer to him as from now on since that’s the drink he asked for. It works. It sounds elegant if I do say so myself. I can tell he’s one of the ones who came here just to get laid, and I don’t know if I can take another evening of cracking my eyes open and seeing the desperate face of a man who wants nothing more than to forget everything via our escapade. I don’t mind being used, because hey, I do that to every damn person here. But I just hate the looks on their faces. It reminds me too much of myself, and it’s painful.

A lot of things are painful for me. Freckles, beaches, any mention of Jinae, and most of all…the name Marco. That’s right, no games of Marco Polo with this guy. Not that I would ever admit any of it. Eren, who is the person closest to me, barely knows a thing about me or where I’m from. I just hate talking about the way my life used to be, hanging onto a boy who wouldn’t sacrifice a single thing for me and living in a place where I’d never be accepted. It was pathetic, and leaving the piece of shit town was the best thing I ever did. 

Fuck Jinae and everyone in it. Except my mom of course, I love her and we still talk on the phone all the time. Once again, I would never tell anyone that, but it happens. She’s getting old now and she lives alone, so I tell myself that I humor her. But really I just love her. Besides, she gives pretty good advice.

Great, now my mind is on all kinds of shit that I promised myself I wouldn’t think about tonight, or any other night for that matter. Grimacing to myself, I walk down the bar and hand Backwards-Cap his piss beer, ignoring his over enthusiastic thank you and returning to Eren’s side after taking his money. And then there’s a brief lull in patrons, just when I don’t want there to be one. I don’t want time to sit back and think. I need my mind to be busy. And what’s up with Eren actually being quiet for once? He himself looks like he’s got stuff on his mind, so I don’t say anything.

Dammit, screw Little-Dick Landon and his God-awful freckles. Now he’s got me in a bleak ass state of mind where I really didn’t see myself being tonight, not with Mr. Vanilla Cranberry over there still shooting his Hollywood smiles at me. I shouldn’t be thinking about this stuff after so many years. There’s nothing left for me back there in Jinae.

Just as a customer finally walks up to the bar and I thank the heavens for the distraction and begin to head over take their drink order, my phone vibrates in my back pocket. Frowning, I pull it out while Eren takes the customer for me without a word. Everyone who has my number – which is very few people – knows not to call me during work. But it all makes sense when the word “MOM” flashes across my screen as the device continues it’s incessant buzzing. Shit, I can’t just ignore her. She’s my mom for fuck’s sake.

So mumbling something along the lines of “I’ll be back” to the back of Eren’s scruffy head, I flee to the back storage room quickly so I don’t miss her call. Once I’ve verified that I’m alone, I answer and lean against the wall just inside the dark doorway.

“Hey Mom. I can’t talk long because I’m kind of at work, but what’s up?” I ask, allowing the hint of a smile that tugs at my lips. My mom is the sweetest woman I’ve ever met, and she boosts even my crappy moods, no matter what the day. When I was home, she was the only person I ever truly felt accepted by. So maybe it’s a good thing she happened to call now, just when my mood was beginning to take a turn for the worst.

“Jean-boy,” I hear her whimper my nickname over the line after a few moments of silence. My blood stops in its tracks and I clutch the phone tighter to my ear with both hands. It sounds like she’s crying. Why is my mom crying? Suddenly becoming dizzy with worry within the single second since she spoke, I ease myself down onto an unopened crate of beer.

“Mom?” I ask tentatively, frowning as I wait impatiently for her to answer.

“I can’t do this anymore.” Her hollow tone, despite stretching across miles and miles of coastline, is clear as a bell. She’s heartbroken and ashamed, and I can only guess why.

“I can’t even reach my favorite mug in the top cabinet anymore. It hurts my back. And it takes so long to get up and down the stairs. And I…I’m _lonely _.” Her voice breaks on that last word, and I listen to her cry on the phone for a few moments as I lean my head back against the wall and squeeze my eyes shut. Fuck…She’s my mom and I love her so much, and I can already tell why she’s calling and what she wants.__

She wants me to come home. 

But I can’t. I just can’t, not to Jinae. I swore to myself I’d never go back there. Not after everything that happened. But she’s my damn mom, the only person who’s stuck by me no matter what. 

I open my eyes and look around at the storage room I’m hiding in, evaluating my life here in Trost. I live day by day, deciding who I’ll go home with each night. And I live week by week, trying to figure out how much of my money per paycheck I should waste on alcohol and cigarettes. And I live month by month, trying to scrape together enough money for rent after I’ve lost it all to my stupid “addictions” that are more just time wasters for me than anything else. 

But years? I haven’t thought in those terms since I was home with her. I don’t see a future for myself that’s any different than what I’m doing right now. And while I pretend to be satisfied with it, I know I’m not. I know I’m fucked up and I hate myself every time I wake up in a bed that’s not mine and every time I smoke and every time I drown myself in drinks. 

So I guess I already have my answer. 

“Mom…do you need me to come back and take care of you?” I ask almost inaudibly, silently cursing myself with each word that leaves my mouth. I’m a selfish person by nature, that I know. So this is way fucking out of my comfort zone. This is…ridiculous for someone like me. But she is my mom, that’ll never change.

“Yes. Please…Come home Jean-boy.”

Shit, this is really going to suck.

* * *

 

The words “Mom, I’m back,” hurt a fuck lot more than I thought they would coming out of my mouth when I stand in the doorway of the house where I grew up, just a week after our talk on the phone. I physically grimace at the taste the sentence leaves in my mouth, but I hobble into the stout entryway nonetheless and drop my bags to the old wood paneling with a huff. I know it’s late, probably a little after eleven, but all the lights on the first floor are still on and I hear movement from the living room to my right, which is just out of my line of sight.

I’ve been completely blocking out the emotions that should come along with returning to the one place on this planet that I hate more than myself, that is until my mother rounds the corner of the living room entrance. When I finally get a good look at the only person left in this town who I still give a damn about, it nearly knocks me sideways. 

She’s old, really old. Her hair is totally gray at this point, still pulled back with a few loose strands hanging over her forehead freely, like little, lost tendrils of willow tree branches, the kind I would walk through as a child and let trail up and over my face. The wrinkles in her warm, sunshine filled face aren’t new by any means either. I never remember a time when she didn’t have them, which may correlate to the fact that I also don’t remember a time when my dad was around. But the wrinkles are the same old familiar ones, just much more deeper. Their trails have been walked so much over the years that they’ve just sunk the grooves even more, wearing them in.

Mom is shorter than me, which is nothing new. However, I’m a tiny bit taller now than I was the last time I saw her, which was when I was seventeen. So she looks even smaller now, which makes things all the more difficult for me to swallow when she wraps her arms around me and nothing feels the same as it used to. 

It never will, will it?

“My Jean-boy, you’re home!” she exclaims, both happiness and sadness tinted with far too many years apart audible in her voice. I don’t know if I’d still personally call this place home at this point, after I’ve been gone for so long. But I couldn’t say that to her, no matter how bluntly honest I am. Her face is buried in my chest for a moment after that, as if she can’t get close enough to me. For that brief second, I don’t know what to do. Glancing behind her, I spot the stairs that lead up to the dark second floor and I wonder how long it takes her to get up and down those steps on her own these days.

“Yeah, I’m here Mom,” I agree gently, resting my hand on her shoulder in the lightest way. Yep, I’m here. Being back in the house itself isn’t that bad. The problem is knowing I’ll eventually have to leave the safety of its old, rickety confines and face Jinae during the day, not under the shroud of night with the music in my car turned to the max to drown out any creeping memories. 

“I made dinner. It’s still warm for you dear,” Mom says, patting my chest and then rushing past me to the eat-in kitchen I used to spend so much of my time in. Her version of rushing isn’t what it used to be, that’s for sure. I guess if I was here the whole time, it wouldn’t be that alarming since I would have barely even noticed her aging right in front of me. But since the last time I saw her she was fifty-one, and a spry fifty-one at that, it’s almost painful to see how much her health has declined in general just because of her age. 

“Made your favorite,” she declares as I follow her into the dimly lit kitchen and take a seat at the table. My favorite? If she made what I think she made, that means…

“Omelets, really? It’s practically midnight!” I laugh as she slides the perfect, yellow oval of egg and cheese onto the plate in front of me. I see her sense of humor hasn’t gone anywhere over the years. She’s beaming at me as she puts her own onto her plate and sits down across from me at the small, circular table. 

“So what? It’s still your favorite isn’t it? Besides, it’s good to be unpredictable sometimes. Omelets at midnight counts as unpredictable, right?”

“Yeah, I think it does,” I chuckle through a cheesy mouthful. Her smile grows even wider at that and we’re silent for a few moments as we dig into our respective meals. Every couple of seconds I can’t help but glance at her. I do feel bad for not coming around at all this whole time. It’s taken a toll on her, and I left her all alone. But I also know that she understands why I couldn’t come back here. 

Mom’s the only person that’s ever really tried to understand me. And while she may not get it right all the time, she’s definitely gotten closer than anyone to cracking the code that is Jean Kirstein.

“Do you have a story to go along with each of those tattoos?” she suddenly says, gesturing her fork towards my arms. I laugh at that. I wish.

“Nah. Maybe the first couple have stories but the rest were just alcohol to be honest.”

“I figured. What is that, a lizard?” she asks. I follow her eyes down to the dragon slithering its way around my left forearm.

“’S-a dragon,” I admit with a chuckle, pointing out the wings with my fork. She nods thoughtfully. “That was a drunk one.”

“Yeah...I figured.” I get hit with one of her trademark smirks, which I used to get told all the time as a kid that I inherited from her. I don’t see it. I don’t even think I smirk that often. My mom is snarky though. Sometimes I swear it’s her permanent facial expression. Gotta love her.

“So how are things around here?” I ask. Now see, I asked this just to make light conversation. I was expecting some news about her women’s church group or a small store closing down in town, something of that nature. But instead Mom has to immediately rock the boat with this…

“Marco’s still been asking about you.”

Well that’s literally the last thing I wanted to hear. I set down my fork as the omelet’s taste goes down the drain, and I lean back in my chair, folding my arms across my chest.

“Mom–”

“I know you don’t want to hear about him, but you need to. You know he’s visited me every other Sunday since you left? And every time he asks how you’re doing.” She explains. I don’t want to listen to this.

“Mom, seriously.”

“He’s been going through a really rough patch in his life recently and he could use a friend–”

“Marco and I aren’t friends,” I assert in my growing anger, staring at the patterns running through the doily that’s placed in the middle of the table. I trace them with my eyes, getting lost in them. Maybe if I get twisted up enough in their intricacies, all my memories will get caught up in the tangles and get left behind.

“You _were _. I think he may need you right now.”__

“Look, I don’t care what’s going on with him. I don’t want anything to do with him. Where was he when I needed him, huh?” I stand up, my chair scraping along the floor. “Marco ruined my life. He doesn’t get a second chance,” I huff, glaring at my mom who looks entirely too small in her seat as I stand over her from across the table. The kitchen itself suddenly seems too small to contain my mountains of anger towards this faceless man, who I can only remember as a freckled, eighteen-year-old boy. The last memory I have of him is his apathetic expression from the audience as I walked across the sunlit stage at our high school graduation.

I hated him more than anything in that moment.

“He made a mistake dear. Just remember that he’s a different man now. Might is right,” my mom rattles of her catchphrase, _might is right _. I’m still not entirely sure what it means, but it has something to do with those with good intentions being the ones to come out on top in the end. I think…at least that’s what the website said the one time I looked it up online.__

“I get what you’re trying to do, but he’s a dick. Now do you even need help around here or did you just have me cut off my lease and haul my ass over here just to try getting me and Marco back together?”

“ _Language _. And no, I really do need help Jean-boy,” she says, seeming taken aback by my statement.__

“Good,” I say with an exasperated sigh, which almost turns into a yawn but I hold it back. “Do you need help up the stairs before I go to sleep?”

“I sleep down here now on the couch.” Mom explains sadly, nodding towards the living room. I want to feel bad, but I’m still too fired up. I’m angry that she suggested that I make amends with Marco. I’m angry that she even treated that like an option.

“All right then. Good night.” I say gruffly before I start to feel to like shit, and I dump my plate in the sink before grabbing my bags and marching upstairs to my old bedroom. I don’t even listen for her response, as bad as that sounds.

I know I’m being cruel, but that’s me. I’ve always been this way. I haul ass out of any situation that’s starting to piss me off, because that’s the best way I know how to handle things. There are many nights when I wonder if I’ve become like my dad in that sense. I never met him, not in any way that I can remember anyway, but his one single action is the only sliver of his personality that I have: leaving. And apparently it stuck with me. 

It pisses me off that I’m like him. It pisses me off that Marco is in his house somewhere not too far from here, probably sleeping soundly with his big happy family while I’ve been struggling for the past seventeen years just to stay afloat and it’s all his fault. He got to forget, I didn’t.

I didn’t ever forget for second what happened between Marco and me. Despite that, I still try to, stripping down and crawling into my old bed. When I pull the covers over my head and a faintly familiar scent hits me, it takes me a while to realize that it’s me. Me: before all the alcohol and the cigarettes and the ridiculous amounts of cologne to try covering it all up. It goes to show that I’m too different now to ever go back to the way things were.

Yet still, right before I drift off into a fitful sleep, I find myself wondering is Marco still smells the same, or if he also changed like me. 

* * *

 

MARCO’S POV:

“Well Mr. Gruber I can assure that you won’t find better prices in any of the nearby costal towns. And forget about the big city companies. They’ll charge you an arm and a leg,” I say before taking a polite sip of my water. I listen contently to the bustling about of the familiar diner that we’re sitting in as the balding man sitting across from me finishes chewing before he answers.

“Oh I believe you. I’m not going to go get my money tricked out of my own pockets when I already trust you,” the older man laughs before taking another bite of his sandwich. Then he becomes serious for a moment. “But really, I think this is a great idea for my company. I appreciate you meeting with me.”

“So what do you say?” I ask, flashing him one of my winning smiles and extending my hand. Without even a moment’s hesitation, he takes it into his own sweaty, calloused grip and shakes it surely.

“I’d say you have a deal!” he exclaims jubilantly. He wipes his sweltering forehead with a napkin as we both stand and exit the booth we were sitting in. 

“You won’t regret it,” I reassure him, earning a chuckle in response.

“I’m sure I won’t. I’ve known your father for years and he’s a great guy. I know he raised you to be a man of your word,” Mr. Gruber says, patting my shoulder once. “I’ll be by to look at them on Monday morning and I’ll send my guys over…Let’s say later that afternoon?” he adds as he turns to leave.

“Sounds perfect. See you then Nick. Great talking with you,” I bid him farewell, sitting back down in the booth as he waves on his way out of the restaurant. As soon as he’s out of sight, I hurriedly begin to unbutton my suit jacket. Springer’s Diner is usually pretty mild in temperature when the window are open, because the see breeze flows right through the entire restaurant’s open layout and almost entirely window-lined walls, all of which are open during the summer. But today the air is stagnant and viscous, as if you have to push your way through it. A lone, portly fan sits in the corner by the register, oscillating lazily and providing barely a breath of stale wind. Next to it, a young, exhausted looking hostess leans against the counter and tries to keep her bangs from sticking to her face.

However, even on days like this when I have to roll up my shirt sleeves just to give my forearms the illusion of fresh air, I still love it here at Springer’s. My two good friends Connie and Sasha own it, having taken it over once they got married and Connie’s parents retired. That’s the trend here in Jinae, doing what your parents did. Even I fit in with the mold. I’m the owner of Bodt’s Boating, a family business that my grandfather started in his youth back when people were just starting to move to Jinae. 

In a small costal town like this, being the lone boating company is actually much more important that it may sound. Fishing businesses, like Mr. Gruber’s for instance, depend on me to supply and repair their boats. I also rent out countless boats to the tourists that come in the summer months, not to mention we own and run the ferry that transports people to and from Rose Isle, where the town’s memorial park is located. All in all, Bodt’s Boating contributes significantly to the economy here in Jinae. It feels good to be of some type of importance to the community, however indirect.

I pride myself in my abilities as a business owner, salesman, and handyman, adept in both selling and maintaining my merchandise. With my own two hands I’ve grown the company substantially since I took ownership, so much that we had to hire more employees. While my sister Judith is a wonderful book keeper, and my two cousins are great, strong guys that are perfect for moving and delivering the units themselves, they simply weren’t enough to keep the company running once it grew past a certain point. So now we also have Krista who is our secretary, Ymir who is our fulltime repair/saleswoman, and Armin who used to go back and forth between the storefront on the docks and running the ferry to Rose Isle. And also just recently I hired Reiner Braun’s son Nico to work in the store so that Armin could focus solely on the ferry, which runs twice as much during the summer months.

I have mixed feelings about hiring him, but not because of any fault of his own. Nico is a sweet boy, who’s hardworking and pleasant to be around. He’s tall, blonde, and broad like his father but has a much softer face, one that is always smiling and curious. He practically begged me to hire him. I had mentioned something to Sasha here at the diner in passing about needing a body to man the store for the summer, and she mentioned it to her teenage son Ricky, who is best friends with Nico. Before I’d even put up a help wanted sign, the boy was on the doorstep the next morning ready to work.

He’s a fantastic employee and a fast learner, and part of me wants to start teaching him more about boats soon since this year’s June is even warmer than usual and he’s taken an obvious interest. However, his father is the problem. Reiner Braun is the hitch that makes me hang back, and makes me hesitate to let the young man too close.

I take another sip of my water, my lunch long forgotten on my plate. Casting my gaze out the window and taking in the perfect view of the ocean from here, I sigh to myself. Where do I even begin with Reiner?

For starters, I can tell by the way the Nico hangs onto my every word that he’s not getting nearly enough attention at home. Poor Nico’s mom isn’t around, and Reiner doesn’t spend enough time with him. I understand it can be hard being a single father and that he must have to spread himself thin. However, he still has to take responsibility for his actions, even if one of those actions may be knocking up the head cheerleader on prom night our senior year, just for her to conveniently skip town without Nico the day after the birth.

One other issue with him is that he cruelly bullied my best friend in high school. It shouldn’t be that big a deal to me now, over seventeen years later. The guy he bullied isn’t even my friend anymore. But it still strikes a wrong chord with me.

And my last, teensy-weensy problem with Reiner Braun is the most prevalent one. It’s the one that keeps me up at night and makes me doubt everyone around me, including myself…

My wife is currently having an affair with him.

For the past three months as far as I know, my wife Annie has been sneaking around and sleeping with him. Neither of them know that I know. In fact, the only people I’ve told are Sasha, Connie, and Mrs. Kirstein my neighbor and old friend, because they’re the only ones I know for a fact I can trust. It does hurt to watch her betray me so easily, readily lying to me whenever I ask where she’ headed or how her evening was. But I think what hurts even more is that I don’t care nearly as much as I probably should.

If I’m to be honest with myself, which I usually am, Annie and I have been pretty distant with each other for at least the past seven years of our ten year marriage. I can’t remember the last time we slept in our bed together, since I’ve opted instead to take up permanent residence on our living room couch with the quiet drone of the television to trick my brain into thinking I’m not alone.

We never fight and we agree on everything, but that may just be because we no longer have the energy to try explaining ourselves to each other. We don’t desire each other anymore at all. In fact, she makes me feel older than I should, and I’m sure I do the same to her. Our relationship is so stale it’s barely even there at this point. I remember a time when I used to see her silky, blonde hair as strands of gold itself, and I couldn’t help but run my finger through her short layers. But now it just looks pale to me. Just like the rest of her, including her personality. Pale. She’s emotionless, brunt, and brooding, qualities that I used to find mysterious and charming but now they just tire and frustrate me. 

I can’t blame everything on her though. I’m self-aware enough to realize that my over-politeness and my eagerness to please probably played a role in pushing her away over the years as well. I can’t pretend I’m the most interesting guy in the world. I sell boats for Christ’s sake. My only redeeming quality is that I’m nice, which is a great quality to have…But it’s not anything special. Plenty of guys are nice.

Of course we tried to spice up our marriage in various ways when we sensed the gap beginning to form between us, but none of it was successful. Eventually we just came to a silent agreement to resign ourselves to a complacent existence with each other, peacefully staying out of each others’ hair. We no longer had to force ourselves to pretend there was something between us anymore.

It’s been less painful than the limbo of trying desperately to cling to each other when there weren’t any handholds left, but also much more hopeless. What do I have to hope for now that we practically ignore each other? Absolutely nothing, but I at least remained faithful. I don’t remember an open marriage being a part of our unspoken deal.

However, when I spotted her kissing Reiner by the docks when I returned to my shop to get something one night, it wasn’t Earth shattering. I didn’t cry, and I didn’t march up to them demanding an explanation. I just slunk back into the shadows of the boats and businesses barely lit by the moonlight, and returned home. Because all my discovery really did was verify what I already knew: Annie doesn’t love me anymore. And that moment was when I finally was able to admit to myself that I didn’t love her anymore either.

So I figured I’d let her have her affair and be happy for the time being, instead of shaming the both of us by exposing them. News of a divorce in a small town like this would spread faster than wildfire, leaving a trail of destruction and judgments in its wake. By the time the words have even left my lips, every person I know would have already formed an opinion about our personal lives. That’s just how things work around here. Everyone knows everyone here, and while it can be a comforting familiarity at times, it can also be a prison.

“So how’d the meeting go?” I hear a friendly female voice next to me. I tear my attention away from the ocean waves outside and turn to see Sasha leaning against the booth, already in the process of snatching up a few of my French fries. Her hair is tied back in her usual ponytail, still the exact same way she’s styled it since elementary school. Sasha always amazes me with how young she looks considering she’s had three children and she works here at the diner almost every single day. The only hints of aging are her laugh lines and a few hairs that are starting to fade into silver at the part between her bangs and the hair that runs into her ponytail. But she acts just as youthful as ever, same as her husband; maybe even a little too youthful sometimes if you ask some of the older folks in town.

“It went well. He’s another buyer,” I inform her, trying to push some pride into my tone despite the melancholy mood I’ve put myself into with my thoughts. She extends her hand for a high five and I return it. At that she sits down across from me, right where Mr. Gruber was seated earlier. After growing up together and attending school with each other our entire childhoods, we’ve become extremely comfortable with each other. So comfortable in fact that every time I eat here I can count on Sasha swinging by from the kitchen to snag some of my food and use me as an excuse for a break. 

“They’re always buyers. I don’t know how you do it.”

“I don’t know how _you _do it,” I reply, gesturing to the half finished burger on my plate. She scoffs and waves her hand dismissively.__

“Oh please, you never order anything besides burgers here. Try ordering something interesting if you want to really experience my cooking!” she comments, rolling her eyes at me. I just respond with a helpless shrug. 

“I love your burgers, can’t help it,” I justify with a chuckle, getting her to laugh resignedly as well. Ever since I was a kid I’ve been getting Springer’s burgers, even when Connie’s parents ran the place. Sasha makes them the exact same way, so why change it up?

“You’re so _boring _!” she accuses dramatically, wiping the back of her forearm across her forehead. She seems to notice some type of change on my face at that, because her expression softens. Sasha knows everything about me, including the fact that I partly blame myself for Annie’s infidelity because I think of myself as uninteresting.__

“I was kidding Marco, promise,” she assures me with eyebrows raised, waiting for a conformation of my understanding. I nod with a smile and then she relaxes and takes a large bite of my burger. “Jeez, June just started and it’s already this hot. I can’t imagine what the rest of the summer is going to be like," she complains through her mouthful of food. Sasha looks out the window for a few moments with a hopeful look on her face, as if she’s expecting to see anything else besides the lazy ebb and flow of the ocean past the docks. I offer her my sweltering glass of water, which she accepts gratefully.

“Hotter’s better though. More people come to town then, and both of us get more business,” I explain, trying to look on the positive side of things despite the fact that I’m sure my underarms have sweat through my dress shirt by this point. Sasha catches me off guard by suddenly snapping her finger excitedly, as if she just had an epiphany. 

“Oh, that’s what I came over here to tell you!” She bursts out once she takes another swig of water. I tilt my head slightly in curiosity as she leans forward over the table. “So, speaking of people coming to town, I heard through the grapevine that an old friend of ours is back around for a while.”

“Who?” I ask, taken aback by her serious tone. I frown slightly in confusion, trying to think of anyone we are friends with that moved out of town. 

“Jean,” Sasha finally answers in a slow, deliberate voice.

Jean?

Jean she said. That’s what she said, right? Jean…Kirstein?

Sasha is silent then, because she knows I need time to try to swallow the stomach twisting, heart-stopping, soul crushing, desperately uplifting word that is “Jean”. I take in a shaking breath, searching her eyes for something, anything to hold me down to Earth. My heart is racing painfully fast, and has somehow dropped down into my stomach where it doesn’t belong. I shut my eyes.

My head fills up with sunny memories of our childhood, playing together in the dune grasses and in sand so hot it stung our feet. Then we’re in school, sticking by each other no matter what because that’s what best friends do. Then slowly, my eyelids are perforated with images of our secret discoveries with one another, hiding away in secret as we came to realizations about each other and ourselves. We fell in love, and I wish I could stop the memories there. But soon he’s yelling desperately at me and I’m crying, and everything is hell. We’re forced apart, and then eventually he’s gone for good. Jean left Jinae the day we graduated from high school and never came back.

At least until now apparently.

When I open my mouth to speak, it’s dry. Sasha returns my almost empty glass of water to me and I drain the last sip out of it. Sasha and Connie are the only other people in the town that know the truth about what happened between us, besides Jean’s mom. In a town like this with such close-minded people, it’s hard to find such trustworthy and accepting friends.

“Jean’s back?” I finally manage to whisper. She nods solemnly, concern plain on her face.

“Yeah, to take care of his mom," she explains. She lives just down the road from me and I’ve visited her every other Sunday since Jean left seventeen years ago, since she was all alone after that and she was the closest thing I’ve ever had to a proper mother. Both of my parents are alive and well, but Mrs. Kirstein has a way of making me feel like it’s okay to be the way I am, no matter what the situation. She gives the best advice, and in return I drop a few groceries by her place and help with things around her house sometimes. Mrs. Kirstein is the sweetest woman I’ve ever met, and has done so much for me. In fact, the only thing she’s ever refused to do is tell me where Jean went after he left Jinae. She would always say the same line every time I asked. “Son, you don’t know how badly I want to send you to where he is to drag him back here where he belongs. But out of respect for him as an adult, I can’t tell you. I’m sorry.”

“I have to see him,” I murmur, half to myself and half to Sasha. She folds her arms across her chest and gives me a mothering look.

“Just remember you’re a married man," she warns, pursing her lips in thought. I heave a deep breath and spin my now empty glass around and around between my hands. Sasha knows just as well as I do that Annie wouldn’t give a damn if anything happened between Jean and I. What she really means is _“Just remember, this is a small, judgmental town and if anything happens, you’ll be judged for it.” ___

“I know. That’s not why I want to see him. I just need to fix things. He’s probably still so angry with me.” I say the last sentence so quietly that Sasha leans closer just to hear what I said.

“Are you sure you’re not still angry with him as well?” she asks, a doubtful look on her face.

“No, I’m not. I just miss him,” I admit far too honestly, wincing at how unbelievably heartsick I sound. Sasha sighs knowingly and leans back in her seat. She knows…She knows I never stopped loving him. I remember the day of my wedding, when Annie and I were pronounced husband and wife. When I looked out at the crowd of people gathered on the beach that day, Sasha’s frown was what caught my eye. She knew that I still loved Jean, that I was just trying to fill up that hole in me that he left. And she knew better than anyone that it wouldn’t work, and that I had just kissed away my last chance at ever truly being happy.

“Just please be careful Marco, and _think _for God’s sake.”__

“I will, thank you,” I reply quietly, offering her a soft smile. She returns it and the pats my shoulder as she stands up tiredly, grimacing slightly when a crack sounds from her knees. 

“Man, I’m getting old. But the lunch rush is coming up so I better get back to the kitchen and kick some ass," she sighs with a chuckle hiding just behind her lips. She looks at me fondly as I pick up my suit jacket and stand up as well.

“Yeah I’d better head out too and get back to the shop…Thank you by the way.” There’s no way I could truly express how grateful I am for her friendship, and her husband’s as well. They’ve supported me throughout my whole life, despite my mistakes and my unorthodox problems that I come to them with. 

“You’re welcome. But hey, word of advice? Let it happen naturally. Don’t just show up on his doorstep spewing apologies. It’s a small town, so you’re bound to run into him at some point. Almost every night Connie mentions how you two run into each other while doing errands. It’ll happen in its own time,” she suggests intelligently. Although it’ll be nearly impossible not to just run down the street straight to his house and beg for his forgiveness, she’s completely right. I have to keep in mind that there are plenty of reasons why Jean left this town, and that he’ll need time on his own to adjust to being back here. It’s already been seventeen years since I last saw him, so a few extra days won’t kill me.

_Hopefully _.__

“All right, I’ll wait,” I say begrudgingly as I pull out my wallet and leave a tip for the waitress that served Mr. Gruber and I earlier. 

“Good boy. But I really have to go so I’ll talk to you soon. Update me whenever you get the chance. Or just tell Connie. He tells me everything anyway,” Sasha says with a wink before turning and swiftly making her way back to the kitchen. Once she’s gone I gather up my briefcase in my left hand with my suit jacket and head to the front to pay for my meal. The room is somehow silent around me despite the high amount of people eating late breakfasts and early lunches in the diner. Maybe it’s just my head whirling around with too many thoughts. That must be it. I hand over the money to the hostess and wait for her to make my change as my mind wanders through the endless possibilities that could come of Jean being back in town. One thing I know for sure is this: there is a bitter sort of hope nagging at me somewhere deep inside, and I’m going to lose it if I don’t see him soon.

This is the change I’ve been waiting for all these years while I wallowed in my own self-pity through lonely nights on the couch and empty kisses and endearments between me and my wife. I’ve been losing myself this whole time to a darkness that’s been dragging me deeper and deeper with each and every question that I ask myself, like why am I the way I am? Why can’t I love Annie the way I originally thought I did? What am I waiting for? And most importantly, what do I have to look forward to in my life?

Jean has been the answer this whole time, and I’m not saying he’ll be able to swoop in and fix everything. I doubt he’d even be willing to. What I am saying is that if I could just see him and talk to him, maybe I’d be able to figure out what really happened between us and gain a better understanding of myself.

And maybe, just for a moment, I’d feel alive again.

* * *

 

_Jinae: June 7th, 1997_

_It’s strange to think that all of my years of schooling are done. As I sit in the boiling sun, drenched in my cap and gown with every part of me sticking to my seat, I reflect on that fact. It’s not like I’ll be going to college or anything. I’ll just work for my dad’s boating company for the rest of my life, which I’m surprisingly content with. When he was still speaking to me, Jean always used to ask me why I didn’t aim for something higher, and I would always just shrug and say I’m good with boats. Always have been._

_Our graduation ceremony has been going on for while, and my diploma is already securely gripped in my hand. My last name starts with B, so it wasn’t long before it was my turn to take the walk across the stage and hear my family cheer for me. It wasn’t the ethereal, full-circle experience they make it out to be in movies. It was more numbing than anything._

_I’m not happy, I’m not miserable. I’m not anything anymore._

_Jean’s name being called by the principal catches my attention. Keeping my head down, I simply angle my eyes up to look at him so nobody notices my interest. He’s gotten a haircut since the school year ended last week. It’s not that different but I’ve always noticed the little things about him. That confidence he used to display is no longer in his step, and he keeps his head down even farther than mine. He’s barely himself anymore, and it kills me._

_But still, I do nothing._

_As soon as he takes his diploma gingerly from the hand of our frowning principal, I hear something called out a few seats down from me that makes my blood boil._

_“Fuckin’ fag!” Reiner Braun’s sadistically satisfied voice sounds out through the crowd followed by scattered snickers, causing Jean to turn his head and look out at us all for a moment or two. There’s nothing shown on his face. Not even a hint of the anger that I know he has swirling around relentlessly inside of him. He just looks empty._

_As he walks down from the stage and doesn’t even bother returning to his seat, I decide that I can’t take this anymore. I need to talk to him, no matter how much he may hate me. I have to fix this somehow._

_The rest of graduation passes in a blur, and I’m ever aware of the fact that Jean just left totally the ceremony after he got his diploma. Out of the corner of my eye at one point I saw Mrs. Kirstein get up and leave as well, going off in the direction that he went. My heart sinks at that, because all of this is my fault. All of it._

_Finally, when everything is over, I rush out to my car, completely bypassing my family and friends. I’m in the Kirstein’s driveway before I even give myself a chance to really think or breathe. My heart is pounding and I feel like at any moment I might change my mind and turn around._

_But I don’t. I scramble up the steps on their faded white, wooden porch and ring their doorbell. And I wait, praying that I find the right words to make everything better when Jean answers the door. He used to say I was the one who always knew what to say. I just hope he was right._

_I’m taken by surprise when a teary-eyed Mrs. Kirstein answers, looking up at me in despair. That’s when I realize that Jean’s car isn’t even here…And maybe the reason why he didn’t get angry at the ceremony was because he no longer needed to be angry with us all. He was already done with us before he got onto that stage, maybe even longer. But still I ask the question._

_“Is Jean here?” I manage to say from my dry mouth. She shakes her head and leans against the doorframe for support._

_“He left dear, I’m sorry.” A few tears leak from her eyes as she raises her hand over her mouth to try and hide her sorrow. I resist the urge to reach out and set my hand on her shoulder, to do something, anything to show her how sorry I am to have caused her and Jean so much pain._

_“Do you know when he’ll be back?” I still ask anyway, even though we both know what the tone of her words implicated. She sighs and shuts her eyes. And in that moment she looks amazingly old and amazingly tired. I don’t want to hear what she has to say next, but the words come anyway. And when they do, my throat constricts at the startling realization that I can’t fix things this time._

_“He’s not coming back dear.” ___

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I'm really excited to be sharing this new story with you all!! Please feel free to leave kudos/comments if you're so inclined. More chapters to come soon, probably of increased length. This was more of an introduction than anything, so it'll pick up much more in the next chapter. Marco and Jean will actually interact with each other, so that's something to look forward to lol.  
> My tumblr is [here](http://physiologyfan.tumblr.com) so you can always visit there if you have questions for me. Thanks again for reading!


	2. Enough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You get to meet the entire Springer family in all their glory, Marco goes to church, and Jean receives an assignment from Mama Kirstein.
> 
> **Marco's Theme: _Waiting for You_ by Isobel Anderson**  
>  "All I'd been told is if you find a man, to make sure he's gentle and kind. But you can't help who you love, and boy it's always been you. So now I'm here all alone, waiting for you."
> 
> **Jean's Theme: _Run Wild (Acoustic) _by Jon Bellion__**  
>  "Gave it up for him but only just to let you down, to let you down...Oh, now you wanna run wild. Oh, now you wanna run wild. Oh, now you wanna run wild."
> 
>  *Warning: slight description of violence/bullying at end of chapter!*

MARCO’S POV:

To say this past week has been torture for me would be the understatement of the century. It’s Sunday morning, and when I wake up to my phone alarm screeching from the end table next to the couch, I add another tick to my metaphorical cell wall. This marks the sixth day since Sasha told me that Jean is back in town, and I’ve done nothing but think about him since. Turning off my alarm, I roll over and press my face into the corner of the couch, pulling the thin sheet around my bare shoulders.

Going back to sleep sounds a hundred times better than church right now. Annie and I only even go because everyone else in town does, and we have to do it in order to fit in and keep up with the façade that is our marriage. But when my head is filled with the idea of Jean so close, never more than a few blocks away, it’s hard to care about social appearances.

“Are you getting up for church?” I hear above me. Turning my head and peeking over the back edge of the couch, I see Annie leaning over the railing of the second floor loft hallway in her pajamas, a tired look on her face. She doesn’t want to go either. Neither of us is even Christian. But in Jinae, the easiest way to commit social suicide is to not attend church. There is only one chapel in town and everybody goes to it. So if we stop coming, everyone will know, and everyone will want to know why.

“Yeah, I’m getting up dear.” I say with a sigh that morphs into a groan once I actually begin the process of sitting up. Maybe I’m so tired because of how emotionally invested I’ve been in everything I’ve done this week. Every time I left the house I put extra effort into my appearance, just in case I ran into Jean. I kept an eye out whenever I was about in town or driving down the streets. There’s been a pit in my stomach for six days now and every time I think about the memory of his intense, light brown eyes, it twists just a little bit tighter.

It’s exhausting to say the least, but I get up anyway and get ready for church, even though it’s the one place I know I definitely won’t run into him. I know Jean well enough to know he wouldn’t touch a church with a thirty-foot pole. In high school he’d put up these huge fights with his mom until finally she just let him stay home when she went. She wasn’t happy with him, but I remember him telling me how relieved he was that he didn’t have to go back in there. So there’s no way he’ll be there today. But still, I put on my favorite shirt and tie just in case.

The drive to church is thoroughly uneventful, and by that I mean not a single word is spoken between Annie and me. Sunday mornings are hard for us, because it’s the one time during the week when we can’t make excuses not to be around each other. I can’t say I have work to do, she can’t say she’s “going out with friends”, and neither of us can hide in our respective territories of the house because we have to actually, physically go to the church together.

It just sucks. There’s no other way to describe it.

By the time we arrive, the ten minutes of straight silence has made me feel oddly lonely and uncomfortable, like a killer itch. So I park in the expansive lot next to the old white chapel and don’t even wait for Annie to open her door before I’m already out and heading over to where I’ve spotted all three generations of the Springer family gathered outside Sasha’s minivan. During the summer months, most of the community gathers outside of the church building to talk amongst themselves until the service starts. It’s a time of friendly catching up and warm greetings. I also enjoy it because in the crowds of people surrounding the building, nobody will notice if I sort of just avoid standing around Annie.

“Marco!” Connie bellows in excitement when he notices me heading over to them, leaving my wife in the dust. I swear he’s like a child still, even though he’s not even a year younger than me. If anything, he should be more mature considering he has a family of four, but then again maybe having the kids so early is what kept his youthfulness in tact all these years.

“Hey Connie!” I greet happily, thanking whatever Lord is up there for the Springers. There’s Sasha and Connie, their three children Ricky, Dalia, and Ellie, and then Connie’s parents Francine and George. His parents were the previous owners of Springer’s Diner, but passed it onto Sasha and him soon after they married. Sasha got pregnant with Ricky right out of high school, courtesy of a not-so-careful Connie. But they stuck together through it all. While Sasha’s parents rejected her completely for conceiving out of wedlock, the Springers were nothing but supportive the entire time. I’ve always admired Connie’s parents for that.

“How you holding up big boy?” Connie asks quietly with a chuckle, slinging his arm around the back of my neck. He’s been asking me that every time he’s seen me this week, teasing me about the fact that I still haven’t run into Jean yet and it’s obviously taking a toll on me. Before I can answer, Sasha whisks over in her flowing, floral maxi dress, quickly scolding him for bringing it up before moving on to scoop up their youngest child Ellie, who is four years old.

“Say good morning to Marco, Ellie!” Sasha suggests happily, sidling close to me with the young girl clinging to her shoulders. Their younger daughter has always been extremely shy, but she musters enough bravery to peer up at me with her wide, brown eyes, half covered by the messy bangs that frame her round, little face. Crouching slightly so that I’m just below her level, I give her the biggest smile I can. 

“Has anyone told you how pretty you are yet today?” I ask gently. Finally I get a little grin out of her.

“Daddy did, twice.” She mumbles through a mischievous smirk that she tries to hide bashfully in Sasha’s neck.

“HAH!” Connie barks out a victorious laugh from behind me. “Beat you to it, loser!” He declares, rubbing it in further with a victory dance, which I know he’s just doing for Ellie’s sake. It works too, because she’s laughing now.

Nothing brightens your day like a child’s delighted giggle.

“Dad, would you stop?” Dalia cries out embarrassedly from between her grandparents, sporting a loose tank top, cargo shorts, and a pair of sneakers. Not exactly church-going clothes, but Dalia is twelve years old and has never exactly fit the ‘little-girl’ mold. Nothing wrong with that. Her light brown hair, just like every other day, is styled in her usual French braid trailing down her back. Summer just started and she’s already many shades tanner than the rest of her family, probably because of her tendency to always be out running. I’ve never met a fitter middle-schooler. As she puts it, quite pointedly, she’s not going to be able to get into the Olympics if she doesn’t run every day.

I see her most out of the Springer kids during the summer, because I’ve built up a taste for running as well over the years. It really helps me relieve stress. So when she wants to go on longer runs and Connie and Sasha don’t want her going alone, they usually send her with me. It was great a year or two ago when she was slow…but now I find myself struggling to keep up with the little speed bullet. She’s the most determined twelve-year-old I know, that’s for sure.

Then there’s Ricky, Sasha and Connie’s sixteen year-old son and also my godson. He’s best friends with Nico, the boy who works in my shop, so he’s been hanging around the storefront a lot lately. But I always love having him around. 

When Sasha had him right out of high school, her and Connie struggled for a while since they were both working but also trying to care for him. Since my parents were still running the boat shop back then, I took off whenever they could use a helping hand and I would babysit as needed. So it was like he was raised between the three of us. I’m surprised he turned out okay, considering we were all clueless eighteen and nineteen year-olds who were just flying by the seat of our pants. Hell, I even remember after two months of babysitting when Connie’s mom finally notified me that I had been putting Ricky’s diaper’s on backwards the whole time. Who knew?

As if on cue, Ricky pops his head slowly out of tinted minivan, his eyes trained on me. I wave him over, trying to coax him out to join the rest of us. Ricky hates coming to church even more than I do, except he’s quite open about it. He hasn’t really told anyone why, but I have a feeling it’s just mainly the fact that he’s sixteen and he’s in a rebellious phase. Last time I checked, he didn’t exactly enjoy going to school all that much either. He’s doing all right though. He’s a great kid.

Ricky tends to confide things in me when he doesn’t want to tell his parents. It’s not that he’s uncomfortable telling Connie and Sasha things. It’s just that a lot of the time he does it to spare their feelings since he knows they have so much on their plates.

“You’re going to melt with that hoodie on.” I tease him lightheartedly as I walk over to the van, a few strides away from the group. Leaning against the open sliding door, I raise an eyebrow at Ricky who is huddled in the back seat with his arms folded, wearing a black zip-up over the gray polo shirt he wears to church every Sunday. It’s the only semi-nice thing they could ever successfully get him to wear. His style reminds me of Jean when he was in high school. All grunge and dark colors, trying so hard to look like he doesn’t try at all. I know it frustrates Sasha just a tad, while Connie doesn’t really care either way, but I kind of like it. It fits his personality. When Ricky shoots me one of his knowing, bitter grimaces, it’s not anything new.

“This is so fucking dumb.” He hisses, leaning his head back against his headrest.

“I know. But you know what’s even dumber than church? Having a heat stroke in church.” I explain with a chuckle. Ricky shoots me a glare. “Come on, I get it. Polos are dorky, but it’s only for an hour or so. Look at me, I’ve got a damn tie on.” I add.

“Dalia’s allowed to wear her shitty outfit.” Ricky complains, hanging his head. His dyed black hair falls over his eyes.

“Dalia’s not going to suffocate in her outfit, unlike _someone _. It’s almost ninety out man.” I insist, earning a sigh in response as he slowly unzips the god-forsaken hoodie and shrugs the sleeves off.__

“I hate you Uncle Marco.” He grumbles as he slumps onto the blacktop and closes the van door behind him.

“Yeah right, you love me.” I laugh, getting him to chuckle at least a bit as he shoves his hands deep into his jeans pockets, ignoring sarcastic cheers from his parents, congratulating him on his emergence from the minivan.

“Hey, you didn’t even burst into flames! Would you look at that?” Connie jokes, slapping a hand onto Ricky’s shoulder as he wordlessly passes them on his way to go find Nico I’m sure.

“You sure have a way with him.” Sasha comments. “I swear you’re the only person that boy will listen to.”

“He’s just in his rebellious phase. It’ll pass. Besides, it’s normal for his age.” I assure her. She smirks, readjusting her hold on Ellie, who is contentedly playing with her voluminous ponytail.

“You never went through a rebellious phase.” She reminds me. It’s true, I didn’t. But…

“I wish I did.” I try to hide the regret and longing in my voice, but Sasha sees right through me. She knows every single implication of those four words. She knows that if I had, I would have had the bravery to maybe change the way things turned out between Jean and me. Maybe, if I hadn’t been so obedient and cowardly as a teenager, he would have never felt the need to leave Jinae.

“Hey, the service is starting in a few.” Connie calls to us from near the church entrance, where pretty much the entirety of the town is trying to squeeze in through the one set of red double doors. Sasha, Ellie, and I head over together, practically in step.

“Hey sweetheart. What do I always tell you when you’re sad or things don’t go the way you want them to?” Sasha asks her small daughter. Ellie, who is growing a bit less shy now that Connie cheered her up earlier, leans back in her mom’s arms to shoot her a grand smile.

“Don’t worry. Everything will get better soon!” She declares proudly, even putting up a tiny thumbs up. Sasha gives me a pointed look at that, letting me know that she meant that for me. Then she gushes about how proud she is of Ellie, making the little girl clap her hands in excitement.

That sounds lovely and all in theory, but how soon is soon? And just how in the world will everything get better? It’s hard to imagine my problems going away when I know that as soon as I walk through those church doors I’m going to have to sit down in a pew next to Annie, my own wife, and pretend that it doesn’t bother me.

By the time we make it through the bottleneck of a doorway, people are rushing to get in their seats before the pastor makes his way up to the pulpit to begin the service. I find Annie in our usual pew on the right side after bidding goodbye to the Springers. Sitting down next to her closest to the window, I make sure to leave just a few inches between us so that our legs and shoulders don’t touch. I can’t even remember the last time we held hands or just touched each other for the sake of it. All of that is over. It’s gone.

After the pastor’s brief call to worship, the service begins in a flurry of organ music and page turning as we all stand for the first hymn. This part of church isn’t so bad for me, because I do actually like the way the music sounds. All of the community’s voices join together, bouncing off the tall ceilings, walls, and windows around us and coming back at full volume. I’ve grown used to hearing the robust voice of Erwin Smith from the pew behind us. He’s the town police chief, who to everyone’s surprise turned out to be an amazing singer when he was transferred to Jinae two years ago. Plus I like how joyful everyone sounds, even if the reason for it isn’t something I exactly agree with. It’s still beautiful.

In fact, the whole church itself is beautiful indeed, which is what I occupy myself with during the services usually. The building’s tall ceilings come together to a point in the middle of the sanctuary, where we all know the steeple rests above, a single bell hanging proudly inside it. My eyes wander to the front, where the pastor is singing along with the tune and organist is playing away, surrounded by summer flowers and gloriously colored tapestries, all decorating the pulpit in a celebratory manner as if to match the proclaiming motif of the song we’re singing. But of course, my favorite part about the building will always be the stained-glass windows.

They line the top half of the room, running along the left and right sides so that red, blue, green, gold, and purple sun rays blast down onto the pews and light up the congregation like a species of new, bright, multi-colored people. I look to the front of the church to see the back of Connie’s head shining a bright yellow, while his mother Francine’s previously white blouse now glows a bold turquoise. I don’t particularly focus on the pictures the windows themselves depict, but the way they bend and color the sun’s light and how they change my perception of everything within the building is what makes them so beautiful.

My eyes eventually trail down to the regular, transparent windows below them, and I look out at the parking lot outside where the various cars belonging to the people sitting around me bake in the heat waves bouncing off of the gravel below. Past it is a small playground that many of the town’s children play at after the service while their parents talk. Beyond the slides and swings is an expansive field, which fades into a hazy drop-off of a horizon, which is picked back up again by the distant shoreline. The view from here is breathtaking, that’s for sure.

It’s so peaceful and motionless outside that it almost takes me off guard when a group of songbirds suddenly takes off from a tree next to the far side of the parking lot. Habitually, my eyes linger on the tree for a few moments, which is how by chance I notice the man leaned up against it, smoking a cigarette in its shade.

Wow, it’s pretty daring to skip the church service so blatantly, right here outside of the building itself. He’s got balls, I’ll give him that. I doubt anyone else has noticed him yet, but I’m sure by the end of the service he’ll have plenty of judgmental glares being shot his way. However, for some reason he gives off a very clear vibe that he doesn’t care what the people in this sanctuary think. Maybe it’s his posture, the way his one arm is folded across his chest and the other is hanging loosely with his cigarette in hand, both coated in tattoos, while his head is leaned back against the tree’s bark. It can’t be his facial expression, because in the contrast of the shade from the bright sunlight everywhere else, I can barely make out anything above the top half of his chest.

Suddenly the hymn ends and we’re sitting down, bringing my attention back to the confines of the church. A prayer begins, so I’m forced to bow my head and close my eyes with everyone else. I don’t like prayers, because I let myself think too much during them. While everyone else sends up thank you’s and requests to God, I reflect on my failures as a husband. And I also think about my failures as a boyfriend…all those years ago. Every single prayer time, when I’ve left with nothing to do but shut my eyes and think, my mind goes to him. Jean…

Oh my God. I’m so dumb.

That’s when the connection finally clicks in my head, and it’s a jarring one. My heart and stomach seem to switch places as the realization freezes up my blood into slush. The last seventeen years of loneliness and pain seem to disappear for just a moment when I think about all the possibilities that lie ahead of me at this moment.

That was him. That was Jean, right outside. I was looking right at him wasn’t I? That had to have been him…who else could it be?

Suddenly I’m desperate for the prayer to end. I just want to be able to lift my head again and open my eyes. I want to see him again. I need to see him, to make sure. My hands tighten around each other, and I try to keep my breathing under control so Annie doesn’t notice next to me, but I’m honestly _drowning _.__

Finally, the congregation lets out a unanimous “Amen.” Simultaneously, I whip my head up and snap open my eyes, training them right out the window again, on the same tree…But he’s not there anymore. To say I panic would be an understatement. I start fidgeting in my seat, fighting the urge to just get up and run right out of this damn church and find him. Seventeen years of searching and longing is over, but I’m somehow stuck in this building while he’s out there. There’s still a barrier between us, like there always has been.

I can barely take it. 

Everyone rises for the next hymn but I’m so distracted that Annie has to tap my shoulder eventually to get me to join her. I stand, and my knees are practically shaking as I keep to edge of my vision focused on the parking lot outside, waiting for him to come back. Now all of the sudden the hymn isn’t relaxing and beautiful like usual. Instead I just feel like every second the voices around me grow louder and louder, suffocating me. The dissonance of the organ’s notes drill into my skull, only making my impatience worse as time goes on. I’m barely breathing, and I can’t bring myself to sing along. So I just hold the hymnal silently, not even bothering to move my mouth with the words. This is torture. I need to get out of here.

After it finally ends and we sit back down, two scripture readings and one more prayer go by until finally Annie leans over to me, frowning.

“Are you all right? You’re sweating and you don’t look great.” She whispers, feigned concern on her face. In reality, she just doesn’t want people to start talking and wondering why I look so ill and distraught, because she hates having attention focused on us. She’s not actually worried, but that’s okay. Maybe this is my chance…Maybe the barrier is being broken down.

“I feel a little sick.” I admit falsely, shooting her an embarrassed look. 

“Like… _bathroom _sick?” she asks, her whisper even more hushed. I nod softly and she looks up at the front of the church where the pastor is finishing up a gospel reading in preparation for his sermon. “Go right after he finishes this.” She advises, the straightening back up and facing the front again with her hands folded in her lap. And I do as she says. As soon as he says “the word of God” and people begin reopening their hymnals and standing again for the prayer song, I quickly try to walk as subtly out of the sanctuary as I can along the edge aisle.__

Okay, I practically bolt out of there, but oh well. Once the door closes behind me in a final sort of way and I’m in the church narthex, I take one big deep breath to try and calm my nerves before exiting the church completely.

“You’re okay.” I whisper to myself as I exhale, straightening my tie and running a hand through my hair. Some would probably look down on me for lying straight to my wife’s face, in church no less, but I figure I’ve earned a few free passes after all the times she’s lied to me over the past few months. Besides, my stomach is so twisted up right now that I almost do feel sick. So it’s not a total lie, I think to myself with a bitter chuckle.

It takes a few more moments, but I finally I work up the nerve to open up the doors and exit the church, the bright sunlight temporarily blinding me for a brief moment. In fact, it blinds me so much that I don’t notice the figure standing right outside of them, and walk right past in search of Jean. Once my eyes adjust, I take a few steps down the walkway towards the parking lot and my gaze flits around the surrounding area hoping to find him standing just like he was before. After a few moments of unfruitful searching and ever-increasing tension in my gut, I hear a voice from behind.

“Looking for me?”

I make a quick one-eighty, whipping around so fast I almost lose my balance. And there he is, leaning right up against the wall of the outside of the church, next to the bright red, wooden doors. I passed right by him. It’s definitely Jean, even after seventeen years he still has that same face. As cliché as it sounds, everything besides him fades away. This right now, seeing him again after so many years of longing, wishing, and regretting, is probably the closest thing to a religious experience that I’ll ever have.

He’s so perfect looking I swear I could probably _cry _if I let myself…__

I have to give myself just a moment or two to let myself take him in. His hair is a little shorter than he used to keep it before, and the lighter top portion is all pushed messily to one side. His slightly unshaven look meshes perfectly with his abrasive personality, or at least the personality I remember. Jean also is wearing a simple loose, black tank top that exposes his numerous amounts of tattoos. It’s kind of funny because I remember him having so many facial and ear piercings back in high school, yet it looks like he traded all those in for tattoos instead. The only piercings he has left are a single stud in each ear. His eyes though, they haven’t changed a bit.

“Okay…you have nothing to say? You obviously came out here trying to find me.” Jean points out, scowling at me and folding his arms. I realize then how long I’ve just been staring at him dumbly. However, when I open my mouth to speak, he continues on before I can say anything, holding up a hand.

“Actually, that’s fine. I wouldn’t want to hear anything you have to say anyway.” He says, anger glinting in his eyes.

Oh.

It stings. It stings so much…He pushes himself off the church wall with one foot and walks towards me down the walkway.

“Go back inside Marco. I’m sure your wife is missing you.” Jean practically spits as he passes me, his shoulder roughly hitting mine as I stand there frozen. My heart suddenly aches so much I can barely breathe. But what can I say? How can I make him not hate me? This isn’t how I was expecting things to go when I finally saw him again.

“Jean,” I start, hoarse with nervousness as I turn around to watch him continue walking across the parking lot. He pauses to listen, but doesn’t turn around. “I’m sorry…I’m so sorry.” I want to say more but my voice starts breaking and I don’t want to start crying. Jean finally turns around, and I’m surprised to find a look of confusion. His mouth hangs slightly open and his eyebrows are raised, as if he can’t believe what he’s hearing.

Have I gotten through to him? Was it really as easy as “I’m sorry?”

Jean takes a few steps closer to me again until he’s just a few feet away from me. Then he breaks into a small smile…and I’ve never seen something more beautiful in my life. It’s like his smiling face is my own personal ray of sunshine, the hope in my dismal life. Maybe Sasha and Ellie were right. Things can get better. Here, in this moment with Jean smiling at me, I’m okay again. I almost consider hugging him. There’s a light at the end of the tunnel after all.

But then…

“Do you honestly think I give a shit if you’re sorry Marco?”

…

Ah, it seems the light was just a train barreling right towards me.

His words shatter my heart, right after I just managed to start taping it back together for the briefest of moments. Jean’s expression turns vicious, and he leans closer to me with a deep inhale, somehow vastly intimidating despite being an inch or two shorter than me.

“What, you thought when you saw me you’d apologize and I’d forgive you just like that? _Really _?” It almost seems like he’s trying to hold back a laugh, like my cowering regret is something he takes joy in. “I fucking hate you Marco!” He declares with a light chuckle, throwing his hands up in disbelief, like he cannot fathom the idea that I didn’t already know this.__

I just stare at him, feeling indescribably small. What else can I do? Saying anything else will just make him angrier with me. It’s clear just how much what happened between us still affects him, just like it affects me still. The only difference is while I’ve been followed by regret these last seventeen years, he’s been harboring a growing fury towards me. It makes sense. I deserve it, but I still want to do anything I can to make things right.

“I just want to fix things.” I whisper, trying desperately to keep it together. However, he’s already shaking his head before I finish the sentence.

“Leave me the hell alone. That’s how you can fix it.” He retorts, glaring at me lividly. I don’t even try to think of something to say in response to that, because my brain pretty much slows to a halt at that point. This is too much for me. I’ve lived my entire adult life keeping myself going with only the small hope of one day being able to make amends with Jean. Every time I visited his mom on Sundays I would ask about him, just to see how he was doing. He’s never left my head after all these years and I’ve held onto his memory like a good luck charm, a talisman that would one day guide me to the real him. And now that he’s here…he wants nothing to do with me. He won’t even give me a chance to really apologize.

“O-okay.” I whisper, casting my gaze to the ground. From the corner of my eye I see him nod and then turn on his heel to continue walking across the parking lot. I watch him go, seeing him get in an old looking, black car, which is parked in the spot where his mom usually parks. I guess he drove her to church today and that’s why he’s here. It makes sense. He doesn’t start up the car or anything, but simply rolls down the windows and after a few moments hangs a cigarette out.

That’s it. It’s over I guess.

It takes a few seconds, but eventually I turn around as well and head back into the church. Every measured step is forced by my own will to get away from him before I lose control of my emotions. All I can do to keep myself focused is to just repeat my usual mantra in my head. _You’re okay. You’re okay _.__

I don’t bother going back into the service, and instead duck into the bathroom where I should have been in the first place. Rushing down and into the last stall, I slam the door behind me, lock it, and sit down on the toilet. After a bit of just holding my head in my hands, I lean down to check for feet in the other stalls, to see if anyone else is in here.

The coast is clear. So I allow myself a deep, shaky inhale, briefly looking at the fluorescent ceiling light above me. I hold it in for a bit, my eyes flitting around the four walls so close to me until they become a blur of beige through the my tears. Here it comes.

My exhale is more of a sob than an expulsion of air. My arms come to wrap around my torso as I lean over myself, trying to somehow contain the hurt that won’t stop flooding out of me. It’s like a tidal wave, knocking me sideways. 

I’m a grown adult, hiding in the bathroom and crying like a damn middle-schooler. It’s pathetic, but that’s what Jean does to me. More importantly, this is what _I __did to _myself __. I deserve this…__

Is this finally the rock bottom that I’ve been careening towards all these years? I’ve been able to put up with anything and everything all because I had hope. I had hope that one day I’d be able to be happy again. And Jean…he’s the only way I can be happy. That much I could tell just by seeing his face again. I haven’t fallen even the tiniest bit out of love with him. But now that I know he wants nothing to do with me, and would never consider forgiving me for what I did, it’s all too much. All the things that I’ve been able to bear up to this point suddenly come crashing down on me.

My marriage is gone. There’s nothing left of it. I’m thirty-five and I still don’t have a family of my own. I spend all my time in that damn boat shop because it’s the only thing I have in my life that I can be the least bit proud of. And the longer I spend there the less I’m living; I know that. But what life do I have outside of my work? Who even finds me worth their while anymore?

I’m nothing. Marco Bodt is just a name, not a person. I’ve spent all this time filling roles, hoping that others will appreciate my presence, and want to spend time with me, and love me. And I’m just realizing now that it’s all been useless effort.

Is my life really that meaningless?

I dig my fingers tighter into the sides of my ribs, burying my face in between my knees as I cry as soundlessly as I can into my dress pants. I’m just waiting for these metal stall walls to come crashing down around me. Everything else has already come down, so it wouldn’t be a surprise. In fact, I hope they come down. I wish something would happen to me just so I could really prove that nobody gives a crap about me. Nobody would come to my rescue. I don’t have a hero…

“Marco, buddy. You in here?” Connie’s voice suddenly sounds from the bathroom entrance. Oh yeah…the Springers. He manages to come just as I’m getting too far into my own thoughts. Sasha and Connie are my best friends. How could I, even in the depths of my swirling torrent of self-deprecation, forget about them? I guess for now, Connie will be my hero. Right now in this church bathroom, my life falling apart, he’s all I’ve got.

“Mm-hm.” I manage to mumble, wishing my voice didn’t sound so childlike and tearful.

“The service is over. I was looking for you and Annie said you felt sick.” How long have I been in here crying? I hear the door close behind him and his dress shoes clacking against the tile floor. He’s coming over here. “Is it that bad?” Connie asks. I sit up and try wiping my eyes. But I’m sure I still look like a mess. I just know.

“Pretty bad.” I answer back, trying to keep a whimper from escaping my lips. I can see his feet outside of my stall now, facing away from me. He’s probably checking himself out in the mirror, typical Connie.

“Dude you okay? You sound like you’re crying.” He says. I can’t answer. What the hell am I supposed to say to that? Am I supposed to explain to him that I’m positively weeping over someone I dated in high school? He knows Jean is important to me, but even I know that I’m acting dumb. 

But if anyone else saw the look on his face when he said he hated me…they’d understand.

“Marco? Hey, are you okay?”

Would he just stop asking me if I’m okay? It just makes me want to cry even _more _. Connie is right at the door now, knocking lightly as if I didn’t already know he was there.__

“Come on, what’s going on? You can tell me.” He insists. I can practically feel his words plating themselves over my skin like armor. My instinct is to shut him out, to not tell him a thing. But I know Connie. He’s too kind. He won’t leave this bathroom until he gets something out of me.

“I’m not sick…” I start with a whisper. There is silence on the other side of the door, waiting for me to elaborate. “I went outside and Jean was out there and I tried to talk to him. It didn’t go well.” I continue.

“Oh…Shit.” Connie answers. Then I hear him shuffle on his feet. “Wait here. I’m gonna make up something to get Annie to go home without you.” He says.

“She won’t need much convincing.” I mumble under my breath as he leaves the bathroom. As I wait for him to return, I use up practically half a roll of toilet paper trying to dry my eyes, but every time I think I’ve gotten rid of all the tears, a new onslaught begins. This is just…What can I even do at this point? Where do I go from here?

I come up blank, because for me the answer to questions like that, no matter how distant of a possibility it seemed, was always Jean. And he’s obviously out the equation now.

“Alright, get out of there. You’re coming home with me.” Connie declares as he comes bursting back into the bathroom. I sniff and wipe my eyes one last time before standing up off the toilet seat, which I sincerely hope was clean. When I open the stall door, Connie is standing there waiting, a concerned look on his face.

“I told her that Sasha has a special home remedy for stomach bugs that she is gonna give you and we’ll see if that works.” Connie says, handing me a tissue and guiding me to look at myself in the mirror with a hand between my shoulder blades. “It’s total bullshit though. If Sasha tried to give me any sort of homemade medicine I wouldn’t trust it even if I was dying.” He laughs, still keeping up with his jokes and good mood no matter what the situation. That’s one of the things I like about him. 

“I’m sorry for causing you so much trouble.” I sigh, fixing the front of my hair in the mirror and almost wincing at the redness around my eyes.

“Shut up, you dork.” He chuckles, slapping me on my upper back. “Just get yourself fixed up so people don’t bug you on your way out of the building. I already got Sasha rounding up the kids in the van so we can just book it out of here.”

I wouldn’t want to keep them waiting. I can already see Ricky in the back seat itching to get home so he can do whatever it is he does when he locks himself away in his room. And Ellie is probably making a fuss because it’s almost naptime for her. And Dalia is most likely pouting, bugging Sasha about leaving so that she can get home for her afternoon run. I don’t want to subject Sasha to that chaos any longer than necessary.

“Alright, I’m ready.”

* * *

I’m now in the backseat, wedged between Ricky and Dalia, both of whom refused to take the middle spot. I wouldn’t mind if it weren’t for the fact that every time Sasha needs to use the rearview mirror I have to fold myself down so that she can see. At least Dalia and Ellie find it funny. They’re practically in tears when Sasha is trying to back up into their driveway and I’m bent in half for a good full minute as she finagles the lumbering vehicle down the too-thin dirt pathway.

I go along with the motions, glad I can make the kids laugh. But it’s hard to enjoy the shenanigans at the moment.

When we finally pile out the car I’m grateful to stretch out my legs. For a moment I just stand on the driveway and look around. The Springers’ house is located on the outskirts of the inland side of town, the part of the town that doesn’t get a lot of traction. However, that’s precisely why they got the place. The more you head towards the shore here in Jinae, the bigger, nicer, and more expensive the homes get. If you live in an area that gets a lot of tourist traffic, you have to keep the outside looking perfect, to keep up that “cute, Victorian, beach town feel.” Seriously, the Town Hall authorities can actually fine you if your yard isn’t kept up with correctly. Luckily for the Springers, their home is cheap and since nobody comes around this side of town, they don’t feel the pressure to keep the place looking prim and proper all year round. That’s perfect for Connie and Sasha, who are raising three kids and running their own business practically single-handedly. They don’t have time to worry about stuff like gardens, yard decorations, and mowing the grass every two weeks.

I like the average, homey feeling to their little ranch house. The outside is simple beige siding, which time and weather have browned around the edges. Their driveway is literally just packed dirt, with two constantly used tire grooves leading down it. They don’t have a big porch like most people in town do. All they have is a screen door right outside their normal door incase they want to let in air while keeping out all the bugs.

Some of the kids’ toys litter the front yard, probably belonging to just Ellie and Dalia since Ricky is too old for stuff like that now. He wouldn’t be caught dead playing with his little sisters. But I’ve witnessed him entertaining them before. He’s a good big brother, whether he wants to admit it or not.

“Uncle Marco, can you go running with me today?” Dalia asks from behind me, hopping down onto the dusty, summer-dry dirt from the van. She’s wearing a huge smile, a hopeful one that kicks me right in the gut. I don’t even get a chance to respond, not that I would know what to say anyway. I don’t have any experience with letting kids down. Just Jean…

“Honey, Uncle Marco isn’t feeling well. Maybe next time.” Sasha says, giving the both of us a pitying look. Dalia frowns, looking up at me with a scrutinizing expression.

“You don’t look sick,” she says, taking a step closer to me. She stands on her tiptoes, eyeing me severely in a way I’ve come to know only she can. “You just look sad.” She finishes. Damn, the kid is sharp.

The way she says it… _You just look sad _. It’s so matter-of-fact, so innocent and childlike in her knowledge of my deepest emotion that I’ve trying so hard to hide from the kids the whole ride. It’s almost enough to make lose it right here, just break down in tears. But Connie swoops in like usual, saving me from embarrassing myself in front of his children.__

“Being sick makes people sad. Remember when you cried when you had mono?” Connie justifies, ushering her towards the front door. I already see her face go bright red.

“I did _not _cry because I was sick. I cried because the doctor said he had to take my blood! That’s different!” She declares, glancing back at me to make sure I believe her. If there’s one thing that gets Dalia riled up, it’s the inference that she’s weak. I still remember the time she punched Ricky in the face because he called her a baby. She gave him a black eye and everything and she was only nine at the time.__

Every process is slow with the Springers because the pure amount of chaos going on in their family. Just getting in the house takes entirely too long because of Dalia arguing with Connie about “totally not being a crybaby,” Ricky brokering with Sasha to get permission to hang out with Nico for the afternoon, and Ellie throwing an expected tantrum because it’s now well past her naptime. Eventually I just take the sniveling little girl into my arms and march right into the house, already knowing which bedroom is hers. Her pink walls bombard my senses when I gently kick open the door, and they’re almost as loud as the arguing outside. Setting her on the edge of her bed, I kneel down in front of her.

“Do you mind if I take your shoes off Milady?” I ask politely. She gives me a small, bashful grin through her leftover tears and shakes her head. I take her white church shoes off and place them over in her closet. She wiggles her toes in her socks, giggling quietly.

“What are you doing?” I ask cheerfully, teasing her. She laughs, the pure, young, melody of it nearly breaking my heart. This is what I’ve been missing while I’ve been wasting my life away waiting for something to happen. I could have been a father. I could have gotten to have a child like this, and made them laugh every day.

“Give me those toes!” I roar jokingly, snatching off both her socks and tickling her feet for a few brief seconds. She howls in delight, crawling over to the top of her bed and plunging under her blankets. She pulls her comforter up to her chin and plops her head onto her pillow, looking happily at me through her bangs. Her eyes are nearly dry now.

“There you go. I’m glad you’re not crying anymore. You look so pretty when you smile.” I assure her, standing up and patting her shoulder. “Have a good nap.” I say as I turn to leave the room.

“You look pretty when you smile too.” She responds. I glance back at her, this little girl who hasn’t yet had the chance to ruin her own life. This little girl who embodies what I could have had if I played my cards right. This little girl who’s grinning at me with little, white, baby teeth and brown eyes that don’t see a damn thing that really means anything in the grand scheme. But in her own, personal grand scheme, I look pretty when I smile too.

It’s enough to break me.

“Thank you.” I manage before fleeing the room and closing the door behind me. When I rub my eyes and turn around, Sasha is right there. Rule number one: Moments alone don’t exist in the Springer residence.

“Are you okay?” She asks, concern showing in her expression. I shake my head, trying to wipe the bewildered, desperate expression off my face that I know I’m wearing. Might as well be honest. I’m falling apart right here outside of her four year old daughter’s bedroom.

“Marco, there’s still time for you to have kids.” She assures me, expertly interpreting just exactly why putting Ellie down for a nap has me so worked up. She must have been out here almost the whole time.

“With who?” I sigh, casting my gaze to the floor in defeat. Sasha hesitates, not knowing how to answer. Luckily for her, Connie shows up a few seconds into the silence.

“Okay, so Ricky went to Nico’s and Dalia just left for her run. Want to talk through this over some lunch?” He offers, gesturing behind him towards the kitchen at the beginning of the hallway. Both Sasha and I nod simultaneously and follow him into the kitchen where I’m ushered to take a seat at the table.

“Alright, tell us what happened.” Connie says as he gets to work making the three of us sandwiches after pouring me a glass of lemonade. He does most of the cooking around the house to give Sasha a break since she cooks all the time at the diner. If Sasha is cooking in the house, it’s usually a special occasion. It’s fair of him to give her a break from it when she’s home. I glance at her and she smiles at me softly, encouraging me to explain what went on outside the church earlier today.

My chest aches when I think about Jean again, especially when I practically hear his voice in my ears, telling me to leave him alone…telling me that he _hates _me.__

Regardless, I struggle through my shaky recount of it, holding tightly to my glass of lemonade with both hands and feeling the condensation seep through. Sasha and Connie nod periodically all the while but wait until I’m completely finished to say anything in response. Once I get to me heading back into the church and to the bathroom, I trail off. There’s not much else to tell from there besides the fact that I cried and Connie already knows that. He brings our sandwiches to the table and sits with us, Sasha immediately snatching hers up. Connie seems deep in thought, like he’s trying to figure out exactly what he wants to say. It’s situations like this where his true intelligence shows itself more clearly.

“None of us can know exactly what he’s thinking, but it’s probably safe to say that he’s angry because you two never had any closure. He left Jinae because of you, and you never got to explain yourself or apologize to him. And now he’s had that anger building up for all this time, so it’s going to be tough to get through to him.” He points out, Sasha nodding in confirmation.

“At least we know he still cares about you.” She adds, a small smile on her lips.

“How did you get that from what I told you?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

“He wouldn’t have gotten so upset if he didn’t still care about you a little bit. If he didn’t care, he would have just ignored you.” Sasha explains further, setting down her sandwich and leaning back in her chair. Resisting the urge to just lay my head on their table in defeat, I glance around the small room. Decorative plates and vintage wooden utensils line the walls of their kitchen, giving it an extremely homey feeling. Their whole house feels that way on the inside, confortable and lived in. My house is the complete opposite. White walls, unused guest rooms, minimalistic design. It all screams “empty” to me.

“He said he hates me.” I sigh, my eyes trained on a homemade potholder hanging from one of the cabinet handles, the knit design becoming more intricate the longer I stare at it.

“Maybe he was just trying to hurt your feelings. I mean, you hurt _him _…” Connie says sadly.__

“He hurt me too!” I argue, throwing up my hands in frustration. Yeah I messed up a lot back then, but Jean isn’t completely innocent. I remember the way he would scream at me and call me a coward, and threaten to out me, and so many other terrible things that I overlooked because I knew he had anger problems and I loved him.

Truthfully, I still love him, despite everything.

“He’s not going to see it that way. You know Jean.” Sasha soothes me, her gentle hand finding its way to my shoulder. I let out my breath slowly, closing my eyes for a brief moment. Jean is the only person who makes me get like this. He’s the only one who makes me lose control of my emotions, which I’m usually so easily able to keep in check.

“What do I do?” I ask finally, eyeing them desperately. Connie folds his arms and bites the inside of his cheek thoughtfully while Sasha continues tearing into her sandwich, a frown present on her face that suggests she’s also deep in thought. I really don’t know what to do from here. Without even the slimmest possibility of making amends with Jean in the future, I’m at a loss.

“He’s gonna be here for a while for his mom, right? Let him come to you. Maybe he’ll come around. He can’t avoid you forever, and he can’t stay mad forever either.” Connie pipes up after a few moments. I think it over. What if it doesn’t work? What if he never comes around?

“But what if he doesn’t? How long should I wait?”

“As long as he needs to forgive you.”

* * *

That evening when I get home, I’m not surprised to see Annie’s car missing from the driveway. I trudge into the house and immediately change out of my stuffy church clothes and into a t-shirt and a comfortable pair of boxers. Tonight’s going to be one of those nights.

Soon I’m curled up under a blanket on the couch, a bowl of vanilla ice cream in hand as I flip channels on the TV. Eventually I settle on HGTV and I try to maintain mild interest in the realty show currently being aired. However, it doesn’t take long for tears to start filling up in my eyes for the third time today. How boring of a person could I possibly be? I’m watching a show about selling houses, and I’m eating vanilla ice cream of all flavors. Do I even have a personality? Why do the Springers even like me? Why did Annie bother marrying me in the first place? Would _I _even find myself worth hanging around if I met me…?__

No wonder Jean wants nothing to do with me. Even I've had enough of myself.

For the rest of the night the TV is a blur of colors and my bowl of ice cream melts on the coffee table while I wallow in my own personal brand of self-loathing.

* * *

JEAN’S POV:

When I wake up, the overwhelming, groggy feeling of Monday morning weighs down on my body, begging me to go back to sleep. It’s funny, because I haven’t worked a job that required me to come in early on a Monday in years, yet I still find myself hating Mondays just as much as everyone else. Maybe it’s just because society tells us all to hate them and I’m just that gullible, or maybe it’s because I can feel the dread of everyone else in the world as they drag themselves out of bed just to begin another meaningless week at work.

In reality, all my days are equally hard to wake up on since my entire _life _is meaningless. Maybe I’m lucky though, since it makes for a nice, consistent routine.__

I end up willing myself back to sleep for what hopefully will be an extra half-hour or so, which doesn’t take much effort. I figure since I don’t have anything to do, I might as well sleep in. If Mom needs me she can call for me.

…

“Jean-boy! Come down here!” I hear through my door and the veil of half unconsciousness. Well, that didn’t take long. I only got about five more minutes of shut-eye. Letting out a few disgruntled mutterings, I climb out of bed and stalk my way down the steps. She sounded pissed off, but not urgent. Knowing her I probably fucked up without realizing it, like leaving the fridge open or forgetting to wash my dishes from dinner last night.

“What’s up Mom?” I ask through a monstrous yawn. When I take a look at her standing in the kitchen, I know I definitely fucked up somehow. She looks mad as hell.

“Young man,” she starts. I try not to snicker.

“Mom, I’m thirty-four.”

“Well you act like a child, so there’s no difference!” Her voice rises slightly in volume. I give a questioning look. What the fuck is she talking about?

“Mom, what–”

“I went to water the plants out at the end of the driveway this morning and Connie and Sasha Springer happened to be driving by on their way to the diner. So I waved to them and they stopped to talk for a minute or two. And you know what they told me?” Her arms are crossed now and despite her short stature she’s actually beginning to look a little threatening. I don’t say a thing, because I haven’t even said a word to the Springers since I got back. Yeah I was friends with them in high school, but all that’s over now. They didn’t necessarily take Marco’s side in everything, but they didn’t take my side either. So I just don’t have any reason to talk to them. In reality, I don’t have any reason to talk to anyone in this shit town.

“They told me that you and Marco spoke outside of church yesterday during the service and that apparently you said some mean things to him!” Mom exclaims finally, boring holes into me with her eyes. Ugh, that shit? Why is personal business never personal in this fucking town!?

“Mom, it’s none of your business,” I retort, leaning on the railing of the stairwell as the reality of how tired I am resurfaces with my frustration.

“It is my business Jean-boy, because I didn’t raise you to act like that.”

“Act like what? Telling the truth? Is that not allowed anymore?”

“That wasn’t the truth! You just wanted to hurt that poor man!” Mom yells now, the sincerity in her voice alarming me for a moment. Why does she care so much about Marco’s feelings? Why should anyone care about Marco’s feelings? The fact that she still worries about him is pissing me off more than I’d like to admit.

“Of course I wanted to hurt him!” I cry out, my voice ringing through the old house. Then I add, quieter, “That was the whole point…He hurt me first.”

“Sweetheart, you hurt him enough by going to Trost. He hurts every day," she points out, walking over and peering at me through the slats of the stair railing.

“How, Mom? He got what he wanted. He got his perfect, little, _straight _life. His dream came true,” I say bitterly, my true feelings coming out. He’s a fucking sell out.__

“Now you know better than anyone that that’s a bold-faced lie.”

“How is that a lie?” I frown doubtfully, scoffing in irritation.

“Because you of all people should know that Marco is _not _straight. He’s been in a loveless marriage for years now. He has no children. He only keeps up with the appearances for the sake of his parents and the people around here," she explains sadly. I pause for a moment. I’m not sure why, but I never really thought of it that way. I never considered the idea of him being trapped in this lie, miserable…But I’m stubborn, so I’d never admit that. Besides, he signed up for this.__

“So it’s my fault he’s too much of a coward to stand up for himself?” I retort. Typical me, not that I’d expect any different from myself.

“Oh, don’t give me that! Like you’re any better, Jean! You didn’t stand up for yourself! You ran away for seventeen years!” My mom cries out. Then she presses a hand to her forehead in frustration after her outburst. “Look, I know you think you were brave for coming out and that he’s weak for keeping it to himself, but you need to let go of this idea that you’re better than him because of it. You had me to support you. He had his parents holding him back. You two were in different situations.”

“I don’t have time for this.” I sigh, shaking my head and starting to head back up the stairs. She doesn’t follow me up because of her knees, but the anger in her voice forces me to stop midway.

“What– you have all the time in the world! You don’t have anything to do today!” She points out furiously. Oh my God, I feel like I’m back in high school again.

“Then I don’t know, give me something to do Mom,” I say resignedly, just wanting the damn argument to stop. We honestly don’t fight that much, but when we do it feels like it never ends. She pauses in thought for a moment, then snaps her fingers as a _grand _idea pops into her little head.__

“You can paint the front porch for me. Jamaican Sea Blue," she suggests forcefully. I gawk at her. The whole fucking porch? It’s a wrap-around! And why blue? Yeah the paint out there is chipping but it looks fine in white. It looks normal in white.

“The whole porch?” I ask in disbelief. Mom looks at me hard for a moment before one of her smirks makes an appearance.

“Well it won’t look good if only half of it gets painted, will it now sweetheart?”

* * *

So that’s how I end up at the hardware store that afternoon, which is conveniently located on the docks near a certain boat shop I’ve been trying very hard to stay away from. The fishing docks of Jinae are the economical hub of the town, hosting most of the big shops besides the grocery store, and they’re always covered in fishermen and businessmen alike. I catch a glimse of one of Marco’s workers exiting the storefront wearing a dumb orange t-shirt with the company logo on it, so I quickly duck into the hardware store entrance. Once inside, I begin what turns out to be an excruciatingly long process of finding _Jamaican Sea Blue _paint. How can there possibly be this many shades of blue? It’s fucking insanity.__

The store is poorly lit, cluttered, and there’s a shit load of people in here for some reason. Is it because everyone gets stuff on Monday to fix the things that broke over the weekend? I have no clue, but it’s annoying the shit out of me when all I want to do is just keep away from everyone and stop people from recognizing–

“Jean!” I hear from behind me right on cue. Of fucking course. I turn around and there’s Sasha, all bright eyed and cheery. She barely looks any different from when we were in high school. A little older, obviously, but her hair is identical to the way it used to be, and other than a stress line here and there, her face is the same as well. Besides the addition of mom-jeans and a subtle aura of exhaustion, she hasn't changed. I grimace at her and return to searching for the damn paint. I don’t want to deal with this shit right now.

“Awe come on, you’re gonna ignore me?” she teases, coming up to stand right beside me, shoulder to shoulder. Well shit, I guess I can’t blow her off when she’s right fucking on top of me.

“You told my mom on me,” I grumble, turning a can of paint around just to discover that it’s _Hawaiian _Ocean Blue. Fuck me.__

“That was all Connie," she claims, holding her hands up in defense. I scoff.

“You two are one in the same to me. And now because of you I have to paint the porch for my mom,” I complain, not looking at her. “Help me find Jamaican Sea Blue before I tear this place apart.”

“No can do. I’m here looking for some screws. The cabinets are loose in the kitchen in the diner," she informs me, as if I care about the state of her restaurant’s cabinets. Then she disappears to another part of the store, thankfully. I run my fingers wordlessly along the metal, industrial-looking shelving as I pan over the blue section of paint cans one more time. I spot one way in the back of the bottom shelf, at least four cans in front of it. I swear it’s the only one I haven’t checked yet. As I kneel down and maneuver the others around in order to reach it, I pray to a God I don’t believe in that this last fucking can is what I’ve been looking for. I get a grip on it and pull it out, turning it around to look at the label.

“Fuck yeah,” I whisper to myself victoriously when my eyes scan the color name. Jamaican Sea Blue. Thank God.

“By the way, you kind of really upset Marco yesterday,” I hear behind me from above. Ah, I guess Sasha found her screws and is back to lecture me.

“I already got an earful from my mom this morning. Give it a rest,” I quip, standing back up and turning around, precious paint in hand. “Besides, upsetting him was kind of the point,” I add, leaning my head to the side slightly. Sasha huffs and folds her arms across her chest.

“You know he’s a good guy, right? And he still really cares about you…a little too much if you ask me.” I look at her incredulously. 

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It _means _that I wish he didn’t still like you, because then you wouldn’t keep hurting him,”__ Sasha whispers, glancing around to make sure nobody can hear us.

“He still likes me, after seventeen fucking years?” I ask doubtfully, getting no response from her besides a panicked look, as if she knows she said too much. Hmm, interesting. Extremely interesting considering he’s married and all. Not enough to make me care though. “That’s pathetic,” I snort, heading towards the front of the store to purchase my paint. Sasha shadows me.

“No it’s not. And you at least owe him an apology. He doesn’t deserve to get chewed out now for something he did when he was seventeen," she insists, concern very plain in her voice. She’s genuinely worried about him.

“And why should I give a crap what you think I should do?” I ask her, handing my cash to the store-owner at the check out. Sasha is quiet for a few moments, but then one of her evil, little, shit-eating grins that I remember from high school appears on her face.

“Because if you don’t apologize to him I’ll tell your mom about all the times you cheated off of me in chemistry sophomore year," she threatens. I’m about to tell her I don’t care, but then I pause. Damn, my mom would fucking lose it if she found out about that. Even though it’s been years since I did it, I’ll still get an hour-long lecture on honesty and respect and all that. Besides, if I don’t apologize to him I’m sure my mom will piss on and on at me about that as well. I know she means well, but I’ve already heard enough for today, Besides, I don’t want her to assign another shitty task as punishment. It’s already going to take me a week or so to do this whole porch thing.

Ugh, I hate this town. It’s too small, so everyone knows too much about me.

“Fine, shit…I’ll go over to his shop right now and apologize if that’s what you want,” I sigh, closing my eyes at the surprising nervous spurt that shoots through my abdomen as the words leave my mouth. I don’t even understand why I care. I don’t have to mean it. I just have to go over, say I’m sorry, and get the hell out of there. Maybe then I can even get out of painting the porch, who knows? 

I wasn’t nervous yesterday when I flipped out on him. In fact, I was excited. A majority of me couldn’t wait to get my hands on his fragile emotions and fucking break them. I wanted him to feel like I did. It was something I’d thought about for a long time…but now I don’t feel nearly as satisfied as I thought I would, despite how fucking priceless his face was when I told him I hated him. Then again, how could I, with everyone guilting me for it?

“Good, I’m glad. Let me know how it goes,” Sasha says, still smiling brightly at me. I nod and roll my eyes, thanking the cashier and grabbing my paint and change. As I turn and begin to leave without saying anything, Sasha dumps her purchase on the counter and whips around suddenly, whisking my shoulder with her fingertips. It catches me off guard.

“What?” I stop in my tracks, eyeing her cautiously. Then Sasha, my old friend with the crazy big eyes that seem to take in the entire world and give it back to you all in the same moment…she hugs me. Besides last week when my mom hugged me at the door, I can’t really remember the last time someone hugged me just because. I mean of course there have been plenty of drunken embraces with Eren and my other friends back in Trost when they could barely walk themselves back to their apartments, but those aren’t anywhere near close to counting. I don’t hug her back, because I honestly don’t know if I can. But she holds onto my limb skeleton of a body regardless, a motherly grin on her face.

“I _am _glad you’re back, Jean,” she tells me, patting my upper back warmly. “A lot of us are.” Sasha adds, ignoring the prying eyes of a few other customers roaming around this area of the store. I recognize some of them, which means they definitely recognize me. I’m a little surprised that Sasha doesn’t care about her reputation being tarnished, being seen all buddy-buddy with the gay guy in town. Then again, from what I remember my mom telling me over phone conversations years ago, Sasha already had a pretty bad reputation for a while after she had her first kid before her and Connie got married. Everyone’s over it now, but I guess she could care less about that kind of stuff at this point because of the whole ordeal.__

When she lets go a few seconds later, the most embarrassing thing happens. I would never admit it if anyone asked me, but I fucking _smile _. I can’t help it. Who knows why? It’s not like Sasha crossed my mind very often after I left Jinae. Yeah, we were pretty close in high school, but I didn’t really miss her all that much. The only person I missed was my mom…well and Marco I guess, in a weird, hateful way.__

“Ah, there it is!” She exclaims happily, to which I frown defensively on instinct.

“Shut up,” I mutter, gripping the handle of my paint can tighter and looking to the floor. I can’t tell you why I’m so ashamed, but I just am. “I gotta go apologize to Marco,” I sigh in frustration, hoping that’ll get her to just let me go.

“Oh yeah, of course! Thank you. And hey, you’re always welcome at our place or at the diner if you need anything!” She calls after me as I hurry out of the store. Once I’m back out in the bright sunlight of the warm afternoon, I close my eyes and take a deep breath, not caring if I’m standing in the middle of the main walkway of the docks.

I need to stop caring. Sasha and my mom are getting into my head…None of this is even important to me. This whole town is nothing. But of course, right on cue, a strong sea breeze blows in as if trying to change my mind. I instinctively open my eyes and walk over to the edge of the dock, peering down at the lapping water between two moored fishing boats. My gaze follows the mirage-like movement of the liquid all the way out to the distant horizon where the waves are so small I can’t even make out the way they roll. Gripping my paint can so hard I swear the handle digs into my fingers, I listen. No matter how much I may hate this place’s memories, growing up with the sound of the ocean always on my heels is one memory that will never stop being magical. It’s a sort of white noise, ever-progressing but staying exactly the same all at once. I would never admit it to a soul, but during my first couple years in Trost, I sometimes used to play an ocean noise CD on my walkman in order to get to sleep. It helped when I was feeling especially lonely.

The sound makes me think of a lot of childhood weekends spent on the beach with my mom, collecting seashells and making her laugh and scold me at the same time whenever I threw seaweed at her. It brings me back to countless detours along the shore on the walk home from school when I had too much on my mind, just so I could feel the sand under my bare feet, anchoring me. My mind even ventures back to nights when I couldn’t sleep, and I’d text Marco asking him to sneak out with me. Every time we’d bring blankets and pillows with us and meet at our favorite lifeguard chair. The two of us would just sit up there all night and talk…about everything.

Of course, those days are over. And I’ve yet to find someone I can talk to like I used to talk to him. But that’s okay. I’m an adult, and I can handle my own emotions. Which is why I’m going to just get it over with and apologize to Marco now. I guess Sasha and my mom are right. No harm can come from it. The only thing I’m actually in danger of damaging is my pride.

I turn away from the ocean and cast my gaze on the storefront of Marco’s shop. ‘Bodt’s Boating’ was never exactly impressive looking, but neither are any of the buildings on the docks. They’re old, concrete, boardwalk-style buildings that serve their purpose. None of them ever have any issues when the storm season comes around because of how solid they are. Marco I guess took it upon himself to paint all the edgings of the doorways and windows orange, along with getting a matching orange overhang. Well, it was always his favorite color so I’m not really surprised. Even the worker’s t-shirts are orange, like I saw earlier. 

He must be here, because I can just see the edge of a sleek, black car parked in the small gravel patch behind the place. It’s really nice. Nobody else who works at a fucking boat shop could afford something like that besides the owner. So I take another deep breath, try to calm the weird combination of nerves and reluctance swirling in my gut, and walk across the dock and go right in the front door. Like breaking into the enemy’s castle in plain sight.

It’s not very big inside, since all the actual boats are outside on the water already or in their lot a little ways down the street behind the store. Mostly what they sell in here is shit for your boat if you already have one, like accessories, parts, and whatnot. They also sell repair tools it looks like, and various stuff that I don’t even understand. All I know is that it looks nothing like it did when I was in here as a kid and Mr. Bodt ran it. They must have reorganized everything when Marco took over.

And speaking of Marco, I can see him leaning on the register counter, maybe only five meters from me at the left front of the store, his back facing me. He’s in a business suit and he’s talking to a blonde, vaguely familiar looking teenage boy who is probably the cashier. For some reason, I freeze for a few seconds in the doorway, not knowing what to do. I’m not going to just go interrupt them in the middle of a conversation. After all, Marco is on the clock. I know what it’s like when my friends would always try to hang out with me while I was working at the bar. It was tiring and a little frustrating when they would butt into my conversations with customers or other workers. Most of the time they didn’t even tip that well anyway… I’m debating just turning around and aborting the mission when the boy notices me and his eyes snap up to meet mine. A big customer service grin plasters itself onto his face immediately and I hear him say “excuse me a second” quietly to Marco.

“Hi sir, is there anything I can help you find? Or are you looking for a salesperson for the boats outside?” he asks politely. I scratch the back of my neck in embarrassment, hating how awkward I’m being right now. I wish Marco would just turn around and notice that it’s me, but he seems to be looking intently over some piece of paper on the counter.

“Uh yeah, actually I kind of need to speak to the owner,” I manage, throwing a glance at the back of Marco’s head. The boy raises an eyebrow curiously just as Marco stands up straight.

“That’s me, how can I…” He trails off when he turns around and sees me standing there awkwardly in front of the doors, paint can in hand. Judging by his expression, he probably thinks I came here to beat him up or something. It hits me a little hard how well I know his face. I can tell he barely slept last night. And I’m not positive but his cheeks look puffy, like he’s been crying recently.

Well shit, now I kind of feel like an asshole.

“Oh, Jean! We’ll um–” Marco pauses to suck in a shaky breath, setting his paper back down on the counter. I can hear how nervous he is from all the way across the store. I actually feel pretty bad now if I’m totally honest. I got all my anger out yesterday, so now the whole situation just seems really sad. “W-we can talk in my office…if that’s okay.” He offers, gesturing haltingly to the door behind the counter. "Excuse us Nico," he adds, smiling softly at the cashier. I just nod and I follow him to the back, ignoring the curious look we’re both getting from the boy. Fuck off. Mind your own business kid. 

Marco’s office is very bright, with two windows with the shades pulled back. The big, rich-looking wooden desk has piles of papers on it, but they all look completely organized. There’s a closed laptop, a lamp, and a mug full of pens accompanying all of his papers, but besides that his desk is clear. In fact, the office doesn’t have all that much in it at all. I guess he’s a minimalist. I can’t judge. I’m more of a throw-all-my-shit-everywhere kind of guy, but I get what he’s going for.

He sits in the office chair behind his desk, practically perched on the edge of his seat, the only part of him not rigid as stone being his eyes, which continuously flit their gaze everywhere in the room except at me. I close the door behind us and set my paint can down by it. Then I ease myself into the plush guest chair in front of his desk, the leather squelching under my frame. I don’t want to do this. Marco looks petrified, and even though I don’t know how to start, I know he won’t say a word until I do. So I sigh softly and then just let my mouth run.

“I just stopped by to apologize for yesterday,” I start, his eyes finally meeting mine. They’re bloodshot. “I went too far and I wasn’t an adult about it. So I’m sorry,” I finish, waiting for his answer, if I’ll even get one. He just stares at me for a few long moments with a bewildered expression, and I notice his eyes becoming watery. He tries to blink the tears away but instead accidentally forces one out, trailing down along the side of his nose. It seems to happen in slow motion, and I don’t know how I feel about it, or if it even makes me feel anything at all.

“Sorry,” he mumbles when he realizes one escaped. Marco wipes it away with his sleeve quickly, like it never happened. Then he gives me a soft, sad smile and swallows. “Thank you for coming over to apologize. I really appreciate it.”

“No problem.”

“And it’s okay. I deserved it anyway," he says with a soft chuckle, trying to make light of it. I’m not sure what comes over me, and why my brain chooses that moment to start analyzing the past for the millionth time, but I start thinking about what he did again. He let terrible things happen to me without so much as blinking an eye. And I think the worst part about the whole thing was that I had to deal with the heartbreak of realizing he didn’t care about me the way I thought he did. So _did _he deserve what I said yesterday?__

“Yeah, you did,” I retort quietly, earning a silent, hurt look from him. I glance around his office again, letting out a long breath of air, my cheeks puffing out momentarily. I guess I’m done here. I apologized, right? Mission accomplished.

“Well I’m gonna head out. Sorry to bug you during work,” I sigh, standing up and grabbing my paint from the floor. Just as I’m about to open the door and escape from this awkward situation, Marco pipes up.

“Are y-…Are you painting your mom’s porch?” His voice is small. I look back at him and nod.

“Yeah, how’d you know that?” I ask, frowning at him. I know people in this town talk but I literally was just told this morning that I’m doing this shit. No way word traveled that fast, especially about something so trivial as me painting a porch.

“She always talks about having it painted that color," he explains, a certain fond look shining in his eyes as he glances once more at the paint can. I know he’s hung out with my mom a lot over the years. She would tell me all the time when he had come over, and I’d always make sure she never told him where I was. Marco squints his eyes slightly though, leaning forward a bit to look at the can harder.

“That’s not the right kind of paint for a porch though. That’s indoor paint," he informs me. What the…? I look at the thing and sure enough it says it’s for walls. _Fuck me _.__

“God dammit. This was the last one of the color too,” I grumble, about to wrench open his office door and march right back over to the hardware store to fucking destroy the place looking for another can.

“I know Ed, the owner,” Marco informs me quickly. He looks scared, like he’s unsure about even offering. “I could probably get you the right kind from him. He never has all of it out on the shelves at once.”

“Yeah?”

“Mm-hm. I wouldn’t mind at all," he assures me, standing up from his own chair. “Jamaican Sea Blue, right?” he asks. I hesitate, eyeing him cautiously. He’s got this desperately hopeful little smile, like he thinks this will make everything better. I hope he knows we’re still not okay. Yes, I am sorry for being a dick yesterday, but it doesn’t mean by any stretch of the imagination that I like him as a person. We’re not friends…not even close.

“Yeah, just come by the house with it whenever,” I agree anyway, figuring it’ll be a win-win situation if I just let him do it. He’ll feel somewhat better about things, and I’ll definitely get my mom off of my back. Plus, I’m about two hundred percent done with that damn hardware store.

“Okay, I’ll probably swing by tomorrow," he tells me, his voice soft. I recognize the look he’s giving me. I’ve seen it a thousand times from him. It was the way he’d look at me when he thought I was doing something cute, or when he was giving me a compliment. It’s the look he’d give me when he told me he loved me. And I don’t want to fucking see it.

“I’m not paying you back for it though,” I warn him, finally opening the door and half-backing out of his office. “You owe me a hell of a lot more than paint,” I add, glowering at him from across the small room. The small smile evaporates from his lips and instead he just looks sad. Sad and tired.

“I know.”

And with that, I turn and leave his office, not even sparing the cashier a glance as I rush out of the store. Then I’m back out in the warm sun, the sea breeze cradling me once again.

Looking around me, I realize that this is it. I’m back in Jinae and I have to get used to living here again, whether I like it or not. People like Sasha and Connie, and even Marco, might end up being in my life again sometimes. As a person who always keeps his distance, that’ll be extremely difficult for me. But hey, I’m getting free paint out of it, right? I guess it can’t all be bad.

Marco’s a problem, but he may also be a solution. If I can at least be civil with him, maybe that’ll be the pathway to getting myself over this whole thing. As much as I love being angry at him and at everyone in this stupid town, a part of me knows it’s not healthy. Just like Marco, I’m tired. We may have different reasons for our exhaustion, but the root of the problem remains the same…He fucked up all those years ago and nothing will change that fact.

* * *

_Jinae: May 14th, 1997_

_I hate him. I hate him even more than my dad. I’m currently held up against the lockers, bleeding again from my lip that’s been busted so many times these past few weeks that I don’t know if it’ll ever heal. Reiner’s fucking laugh drills into my skull, making my headache come on even worse. But it’s not him I hate…No. It’s the spineless motherfucker down the hall who is too afraid to even consider helping me. That’s who I hate._

_Marco._

_I glare at him, holding his gaze the whole time they beat on me, willing him to do something, anything. He just hugs his books to his chest, a terrified expression on his face. I don’t care if people will think he’s gay for helping me. I don’t care if he’s scared to come out. I don’t care if his parents fucking disown him. Can’t he see I’m drowning here!? I’m losing a battle and I don’t know how I’ll survive the defeat._

_Finally Reiner lands his finishing blow, a swift kick to the crotch. It fucking kills, and his friends loosen their grip on my arms and chest to allow me to sink to the floor, trying not to cry. I feel like I’m going to throw up. They’re all laughing._

_“Don’t ever look at me again,” Reiner declares, spitting on the floor in front of me before leaving with his pack of assholes. I can hear their comments as they disappear down the hallway. They make me sick. When I look up, Marco is glancing around the halls to make sure nobody is around. Then he rushes over, putting his books down on the floor and kneeling next to me._

_“Are you okay?” he asks. He knows what I’m going to say. We’ve been through this so many times by now. I don’t know why he keeps doing this half-assed trying thing. I don’t need someone who lets me get hurt every time just to try picking up the pieces afterwards. I’d rather stay whole in the first place._

_“Fuck you,” I mutter, wiping the blood off of my chin. Marco looks hurt, but not surprised._

_“Jean, please. Let me at least–“_

_“I swear to god Marco if you don’t get the fuck away from me I’m gonna smack the shit out of you,” I warn him. He doesn’t budge._

_“Jean, please…” he begs, his eyes starting to tear up. That’s it. I push him away, hard enough that he has to catch himself to not lose his balance._

_“Fuck you Marco. Just…fuck you.” I don’t even have any other words. It’s all I know how to say to him at this point. He finally gets the message and stands up, picking up his books. He stares at me for a long time, as if he’s waiting for a cue to actually leave._

_“Marco,” I start, warning him again._

_“Sorry...I’m sorry,” he finally whispers before turning and trudging slowly down the hallway. Soon enough I’m alone. It’s the middle of a period, so everyone is still in their classrooms. I should have known better than to try to go to the bathroom when nobody was around to be witnesses. Of course Reiner and his friends found me. I swear they keep tabs on me or something. They’re so obsessed with beating the gay out of me._

_Eventually I painfully reach for my backpack, which of course they ripped off of me and threw to the floor. Pulling out my cellphone, I dial my mom._

_“Pumpkin? Is everything okay?” I hear her sweet voice on the other line. It always makes me cry. I don’t know why, but just how tender and understanding she is always makes me release all of the emotions I have to hold in throughout the day._

_“Mom,” I sob into the phone. “Can you come get me again? I’m sorry.” I know she’ll have to leave work again. This is the second time this week. “I’m so sorry.” My voice is thick with tears and the swelling of my lip._

_“Don’t be sorry baby. Never be sorry for all of this," she assures me vehemently. I hear the frustration and panic in her voice. “I’ll be there in five minutes. And I’ve got a few words for that principal of yours. He told me he had it under control.”_

_“He doesn’t care Mom. Nobody does,” I sigh shakily, bringing my knees up to my chin._

_“I do,” I hear her take a deep breath. “You’re my whole world darling. I love you so, so, so much.”_

_“I love you too,” I answer. Then we say goodbye, and she assures me again that she’ll be here in five minutes. I let my phone fall hard onto the floor and I rest my forehead on my knees. I don’t know how much more of this I can take. I've had enough._

_I’m in hell. ___

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for continuing to read my fic! Sorry it's been over a month since the first chapter came out. My research has me swamped this semester. However, with Thanksgiving break coming up I should have some time in between work to hopefully finish up the third chapter much more quickly.
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed the inclusion of the Springer family in this chapter. Get used to it, because I'm in love with them lol. If Connie seems a little OOC it's just because he's matured a bit from his age in the manga/anime (I mean, he is in his thirties in this story).
> 
> But yeah, next chapter you will see this whole porch-painting thing start to play out, as well as finally getting to know my wonderful Nico! (He's seriously my new fav OC. Get ready.) Anyway, as always my tumblr is [here](http://physiologyfan.tumblr.com) if you have any extra comments or questions for me that you haven't left below, or if you just want to be buddies. Thank you again for reading!


	3. Progress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean gets to work on the porch (with a little help), the gang gets together at Springer's Diner, Jean acts like an actual adult for once, and Marco has a few moments of surprising bravery.
> 
>  **Jean's theme: _#88_ by Lo-Fang**  
>  "Will it ever change? Will it always feel the same? It always feels the same."
> 
>  **Marco's theme: _Limits_ by Arctic Lake**  
>  "And I no longer want to be bound by limits that were never set by me. I'm stuck in our routine."

JEAN’S POV:

It’s significantly easier for me to get out of bed this morning than it was yesterday. The sun is shining through the slates of the blinds, warming my legs through the crocheted blanket covering me. Distracted by the dust particles caught up in the light, I don’t even bother to check what time it is. Does it really matter anyway?

Sitting up slowly in my groggy haze, I pause and take a really good look at my bedroom. Mom kept it the same as it was when I left, like a shrine to what we had before everything fell apart. The smell of the old me still feels just as new as it did on my first night back. My bed is shoved into the corner where I liked it. I used to sleep against the wall, as if sinking into the edge of my room could somehow make me disappear. There’s still a little plastic trophy on the dresser from when I won a poetry contest in sixth grade, and some of my drawings from high school are still pinned to the wall above the desk, surrounded by the posters of shitty bands I loved at the time.

A lot of my old clothes are still in the closet too. She kept everything…And it makes me feel kind of terrible. Sometimes I wish she were angry with me for leaving her all alone here. I don’t regret leaving, but whenever I think about how I must have made my mom feel, the guilt is almost crushing. After my dad left, I remember her always telling me that she was the luckiest woman on earth to have me in her life. I especially remember one night my junior year of high school, her and I had argued about something petty. Then the next night we sat out on the porch all night and talked through things and drank hot chocolate. I still remember it perfectly, because that night she told me I was her best friend. 

I left her completely alone here a little over a year later.

Getting up, I go over to my closet and look through some of the old shirts there in an effort to distract myself from my disheartening thoughts. They probably still fit me. I was pretty much done growing by the time I hit seventeen years old. Maybe I’m a little more muscular now, but I can squeeze. Fingering my way through all the graphic T’s hanging up, I decide on an old white Deftones shirt with a few small holes in it. I’m not worried about this one getting ruined while I work on the porch today. Throwing that and a pair of athletic shorts on, I head downstairs to get some breakfast.

When I get down to the kitchen, Mom is already at the table eating oatmeal. She glances up at me but doesn’t smile. I can tell she hasn’t been up for very long because her rumpled pajamas are still on and her hair is in a messy bun at the base of her head.

“Good morning sweetheart.” She says softly, focusing her eyes on her food. I can tell she’s still a little pissed at me about the Marco thing, but she’s trying to act normal so she doesn’t hurt my feelings. I wouldn’t say there’s tension in the room, just a slight, discomforting rift. It’s not a big gaping hole between us, just a small hairline crack. But it’s enough to bother me.

“Morning. Sleep okay?” I ask, pouring myself a bowl of Cheerios.

“Yeah, did you?” She replies, taking a sip of her milk. I nod as I sit down across from her, slurping a spoonful of cereal into my mouth. We’re silent for a while and I’m not sure what to say. Looking around at the light blue walls and the faded beige countertops and cabinets, I think over yesterday’s events. I didn’t tell her about going over to Bodt’s Boating because I was in a really bad mood when I got home and ended up going out for a long drive to settle my head. When I got back, she was already asleep. I still feel like shit for arguing with her yesterday morning. I mean I’ve always been like that, but every time she always ends up being right in the first place. I don’t know how it hasn’t gotten through my thick skull yet to just listen to what she says. But we both know I’m about as stubborn as they come, so I doubt it surprises her. 

“I apologized to Marco yesterday.” I blurt out eventually, just wanting the awkward silence to end. That and I want her to stop being disappointed in me. It works apparently, because she blinks owlishly at me for a few seconds and then smiles.

“Really?” She asks, setting down her glass on the worn, sun-faded wood of the table. There’s a familiar warmth that kindles up inside me at the way she smiles. It’s that fond kind of ‘I told you so, but I’m still proud of you’ look.

“Mh-hm. I went to his shop yesterday and talked to him there after I went to the hardware store.” I explain, getting a slow nod in response from her.

“What did he say?”

“He said thanks and all that, and then he offered to get me the paint for the porch. Apparently I got the wrong kind.” I snort, getting a chuckle out of her.

“Of course you got the wrong kind. I wouldn’t expect anything less of you.” She teases me with her smirk. Rolling my eyes, I grab her glass of milk and take a long swig. She snatches it back, giving me a joking glare. “Is he coming today with the paint?” Mom asks then. Nodding, I finish up my cereal and then get up.

“Hey, his tools are still in the basement, right?” I ask, referring to my father’s tools. I don’t call him my dad out loud. Regardless, Mom always knows when I’m talking about him. She can tell by the way my voice practically falls to a whisper when I squeeze the word “his” out from between my lips.

“Yeah, they should be under the stairs.” She replies, getting up to put both of our dishes in the sink. I head down to the basement through the door next to the kitchen.

I haven’t been down here since high school, so it takes a second for me to get my bearings in the poorly lit room when I get to the bottom of the rickety wooden steps. A single light bulb hangs from the ceiling in the center of the room, its aging yellow light barely reaching the dark corners of the basement. The dirty concrete floor is browned from multiple instances of flooding over the years. Every summer we’d get a few inches of water down here when I was a kid. I wonder how my mom has been handling it without me here, since I was always the one to come down with a bucket and traipse up and down the stairs for a whole day. Sometimes Marco would come over and help me, but it was still tough. It was days like that when I really wished my dad were still around.

The basement has a lot of stuff in it, all lining the walls on shelves or in storage bins. Everything’s dusty, and I’m not sure when my mom was down here last. Considering how long ago she started complaining about her knees really hurting her, I’d say it’s been at least two years since she’s ventured down here. Those steps are dangerous as it is, even when you have sure footing.

Speaking of the steps, somewhere underneath their dark, cobweb-filled depths is the toolbox that I need. Grimacing, I kneel down on the cool, hard floor and push hanging tendrils of gross basement buildup out of my way. I have to fight my way around a few storage bins and bags of random shit, but eventually I spot the somewhat familiar yellow handle of the toolbox. By the time I drag it out my shirt is more gray than white. Awesome.

The thing is heavy as hell so I slowly bring it up the steps right away, praying they don’t collapse under the combined weight of the box and myself. By the time I drop it roughly onto the living floor near the front door of the house, I’ve already said “fuck” under my breath at least ten times. I think I hear my mom gently warn me to watch my mouth from the kitchen, but I’m too busy kneeling on the floor and digging through the gigantic box to really pay attention. Once I find the stuff I need, I head outside. (At least I think I have what I need. I’m not exactly a handy man.)

It’s the perfect temperature outside right now. It’s about ten o clock, so the sun is still in the east. The house will cast a shadow on the steps for the next two hours approximately, so I should work on those now while I can. I immediately get to sanding the stairs, starting at the bottom.

After beginning, I quickly learn that this is much, much, much more difficult than I expected it to be. I feel like I’ve been at it for a half hour and I’ve only gotten one half of the first step done. How come this old paint will easily chip when you don’t want it to, but won’t let go for anything when you want it to just come off?

Over the next hour or two, I find myself focusing on the fact that I’m back home. Even though I’ve been home for over a week now, it still feels foreign to me. Taking a second to look around at one point, I let my eyes wander over the expansive yard. The grass is getting a little tall, and dandelions have practically taken over the whole of it. I kind of like it that way. People around here are so obsessed with keeping their yard prim and perfect. Who actually cares about that kind of shit? In reality, what’s wrong with having pretty, little, yellow flowers dotting the area about your home? They’re beautiful in my opinion, and that’s saying something. I don’t think many things are beautiful, or even worth my attention as a matter of fact.

Taking a deep breath through my nose, I inhale the early summer scents that surround the house. Of course, first I have to get past the musty smell of sanded paint hanging in the humid air around me, but then it all hits me at once. The distant smell of the ocean breeze is just a few blocks away past the back of the yard. The increasingly hotter air carries with it the leftovers of the pollen infestation that late spring mercilessly brings with it each year.

I can hear the rustle of the trees that line the right side of the yard, acting as a sort of makeshift fence between our property and the one next to us. Water is running in the kitchen and I can hear my mom cooking from the open window that overlooks the porch from above the sink inside. All of this differs so greatly from the constant noise of Trost’s streets. Cars, people talking, sirens, the neighbors’ sounds through the thin walls of my apartment, and so many other things constantly bombarded my ears. I couldn’t even sleep for the first few months there unless I had headphones on. Neither places are silent at any point, Trost or Jinae, but the sounds of Jinae are gentler. They’re the kinds that lull me to sleep at night instead of keeping me on edge. However, I liked being on edge. At least when I felt like that, I didn’t focus on how fucking lonely I was. Now that I’m here, the sounds of songbirds in the morning and the mockingbirds’ solo calls at night only serve to remind me that I haven’t got much going for me. Are they peaceful? Yes. Are they the distraction that I need? Not even close.

I’ve been so wrapped up in my thoughts that I don’t realize at first that the sun has passed over the house and is now beating down on my back. How long have I been out here? Shit. Grumbling under my breath, I take my shirt off, which is still dusty from the basement, and sling it over the railing of the stairs. I’ve gotten two and a half steps done at this point. Only one and a half more to go before I have to do the entire expanse of the porch…Jesus Christ.

This is literally the most boring fucking thing I’ve ever had to do. I’m a bartender, not a manual laborer. Yeah I work out kind of, but I’m not used to the kind of monotony that comes along with doing this kind of stuff. It’s killing me.

As if the universe can hear my thoughts, less than a minute later the sound of tires crunching on gravel catches my attention and breaks the tedium. Looking up, I see a sleek, black car slowly making its way down our long driveway. It’s the same car I saw outside of Bodt’s Boating yesterday, so it must be Marco here to drop off the paint. Cool, I guess. I feel like it’s going to be years before I even get to the point when I’ll actually be painting this fucking thing. I’ll be sanding until the day I die at this rate.

His car comes to a halt in front of the house and I hear the engine power down. Standing, I wipe my hands with a rag to get off the residue of old paint that’s practically coating them at this point. Marco opens the driver’s seat door and steps out, a strange, nervous look on his face.

“Hey,” I greet him simply, not really knowing what else to say. I’m not furious with him anymore (or at least I’m trying not to be), but it’s still weird as hell seeing him again. It’s kind of awkward and uncomfortable being face to face with him. Looking at him right now gives me this odd combination of guilt and distaste, but it’s also laced with the all-too-familiar sensation of missing him.

I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with me.

“Hey, I have the paint for you.” Marco says, opening the back seat door and pulling out two big cans. Of course he got two, try-hard. 

“Thanks.” I reply, not budging from my position at the top of the stairs. Marco walks up, moving slow as if he’s being cautious, and sets them on the second step from the top.

“Yeah, no problem.” He says, offering me a tiny smile. Putting my rag into the pocket of my shorts, I just look at him and cross my arms. In reality, he’s about an inch taller than me, but right now, two steps below me, he looks small. I can’t read his expression today. I used to be good at doing that with him. As a boy, he always wore his heart on his sleeve. Looks like he’s clammed up over the years. I can relate…

“Hey um,” Marco starts, pausing to scratch the back of his head anxiously. “Do you need help?” He asks softly. I just raise an eyebrow at him while I try to figure out a response to that. “With the porch I mean…Painting the porch.” Marco clarifies, swallowing visibly as he waits for me to answer.

There are a million reasons for me to say no and send him on his way. I don’t want to spend time with him. Because I know how I’ll get with him. No matter how angry I would be at him when we were younger, I’d still miss him when he was gone. Shit, I’ve been missing him since I moved to Trost. It’s not like I still love or even like him. It’s just…I don’t even know how to explain it. He’s the only person that I could talk to about stuff, and I don’t mean the big stuff. We talked about all that too, but I mean the small things. The really small things. Oh, I saw a cool looking leaf on the ground while walking to school? I’d tell Marco first thing when I got to homeroom. And he’d actually care, and ask questions just because he knew for some reason little things like that mattered to me.

I’ve never had anyone else like that in my life, and a huge part of me wants that again. The only problem is, I don’t want him. No way would I ever dive down into that rabbit hole again. Despite how much I hate myself, I’m not sadistic. It’d be ridiculous for me to put myself into that situation a second time. People don’t change. Marco’s still a coward, and if I spend too much time with him I’ll start falling into old habits. I know myself and my addictive personality a little too well. I also know how much of a dick I can be when I’m angry at someone, and I wonder if he knows what he’s getting himself into.

“It’s Tuesday. Don’t you have work?” I ask. He practically flinches at the sound of my voice as I finally answer.

“No…well actually I took the afternoon off.” Marco explains. I guess that makes sense. He’s the owner of the place, so he can technically do whatever the hell he wants. Plus, he’s a desperate loser, so of course he’d take off for minor possibility that I’d agree to letting him help me. I notice then that he’s wearing already paint-stained cargo shorts and an old t-shirt. I narrow my eyes at him, trying to see if he’s playing games with me. I don’t trust him.

But, alas, this is a big ass porch. And I’ve gotten nowhere with it on my own. And who knows? Maybe spending a little time with him will help me figure out all this nonsense whirling around in my head. It’s been seventeen years and I still have no clue how I really feel about it all. Plus, maybe I can get some answers out of him. I was too fucking mad back then to try listening to what he had to say. I guess it’d be nice to finally try understanding what happened between us.

“All right. Yeah, I could use some help I guess.” I agree eventually against my better judgment, earning an eager nod from him. Before I can say another word, he rushes back to his car and pops the trunk. When he pulls out two more cans, his own toolbox, and some metal bottles of god knows what, I can’t help but laugh out loud a little bit. Marco’s head pops up from behind the car.

“What?” He asks, looking concerned. I don’t blame him. The last time I laughed at him it was right before I told him I hated him the other day.

“What were you planning on doing with all that shit if I didn’t let you help?” I chuckle, making fun of him lightly. After staring at me blankly for a moment, he just shrugs and half-smiles.

“I don’t know.” He answers. Jesus Christ dude. He brings all the stuff up and sets it down. Inspecting it, I pick up a bottle labeled trisodium phosphate. 

“Fuck is this?” I ask, holding it up.

“It’s a paint thinner. You clean the porch with it before you sand down the uneven areas.” He gauges my confused face and continues. “Then you put on the primer. And then you paint the porch.”

Well shit. How was I supposed to know all that?

“So I don’t have to do _that_?” I ask, gesturing to the completely sanded steps at the bottom, not a scrap of paint left on them.

“I mean you could if you really want to. But no, all you have to do is sand down uneven areas and get all the dirt off.” He explains, to which I roll my eyes in response. Not at him, but at how god damn stupid I am. We crouch down and get to work quickly, wiping down the steps with the strong smelling chemical after he gives me a pair of gloves. I don’t say anything for a while, unsure how to even start a conversation with him. I feel like no matter what I ask, his answer will just piss me off. And I don’t want to be angry right now…which is odd. I’m one of those people who usually thrives off of my own hatred. That’s just who I am. So instead, I wait for him to say something. Minutes later when he finally does, it kind of catches me off guard because of how comfortable I’ve gotten wedged in the silence that sat stagnantly between us, just like the humid summer air hanging from the hazy sky.

“Where were you?” Marco asks, his voice surprisingly solid. Looking up from the faded-white wood I’m scrubbing, I glance at him. He’s not looking at me, but is continuing to wipe the porch, only his ears trained on me. I spend a bit debating internally whether or not I should tell him. It’s been my best-held secret all these years, so my first instinct will always be to hold it close. But it’s too late. I’m back here in Jinae and he’s here, fucking helping me repaint my mom’s porch. What the hell is the point of hiding it at this point?

“Trost.” I sigh, leaning back on my heels against the railing. That’s what gets Marco to stop his work and raise his head, staring at me with wide eyes.

“Really?”

“Yeah, why?”

“I don’t know,” Marco takes a deep breath, his round, dark eyes scanning the yard for a moment. “I always thought you went across the country, like to California or something. Or maybe up to New York. I didn’t know you were only a two hour drive from here…That’s all.” He explains, looking unbelievably sad all of the sudden.

“I actually did plan on going to NYC at first, but it seemed really cliché.” I admit to him with a bitter chuckle. He nods slowly, returning to his work on the last patch of the top step that hasn’t been done yet.

“Yeah, so what’d you do in Trost?” He asks. I know he’s just trying to catch up with me, and that with anyone else this would qualify as small talk. But I’m overthinking it way too much.

“Well for a while I just did random food service jobs. But for the past six years or so I’ve been bartending. I like it.”

“That’s good. I’m glad…So you have a lot of friends through that I’m guessing?” Marco then asks. I can’t exactly put my finger on it, but there’s something about his tone that pisses me off in that moment. It’s like he’s jealous or something, and I can only guess about what. It makes me flare up in a moment of fury that takes even me by surprise.

“If you’re asking if I fucked anyone there, the answer is yes. Pretty much every other night. I had plenty of friends.” I retort angrily, glaring at him from across the steps. He gives me a hurt look, frowning at me.

“That wasn’t what at _all_ what I was asking,” he retorts, inhaling deeply through his nose. “But I guess I deserved that.” His gaze focuses out on the front yard again, avoiding mine. I know I should apologize because that was pretty uncalled for, but I can’t bring myself to do it. So I just go back to working. The silence between us is no longer comfortable like before. Sparks are crackling in the air between his pain and my senseless anger.

Once we’re done with the steps, we move up to the actual floor of the porch itself. Silently, we both remove the chairs up here, placing them down on the lawn. Wiping his brow with the bottom of his shirt, Marco sighs and leans against the back of one of them after setting it down. I find myself discretely watching a bead of sweat slowly trail down the side of his neck.

“You know, I’m really trying here.” He says softly, looking at the ground with a dejected expression. I drop down my chair on the grass with a huff and scowl at him.

“Not to be a dick, but it’s a little late to be trying to make it up to me now.” I point out, shielding my eyes from the blinding sun. I think I hit a nerve or something, because Marco simply groans in annoyance and practically stomps his way back up onto the porch. I watch him in slight confusion as he furiously begins scrubbing the floor.

“Why the hell are _you_ mad?” I challenge, walking over and joining him on porch. I sit down, leaning against the outside of the house. The siding digs into the bare skin over my spine. Marco drops his rag in frustration, his eyes, now piercing in their dark depths, boring into me.

“Do you honestly think I would have waited this long to try and fix things if I had a choice in the matter?” He retorts, his hands upturned in disbelief. His tone catches me off guard. Damn, he’s really upset. “You left! What did you expect me to do, search every town in America trying to find you, just so I could say sorry?” His voice grows higher in pitch with each sentence. “You would have just told me to go away anyway if I somehow managed to find you.” He finishes, breathing heavily. I just stare at him in surprise for a while. Marco doesn’t stand up for himself. That’s not the kind of guy he is…or was I guess. Even if he’s standing up against me, it’s actually kind of refreshing to see him doing it at all.

“You’re actually right…my bad.” I answer, keeping my expression blank. He frowns and I can tell he’s trying to figure out if I’m being sarcastic or not. Eventually I guess he determines that I was being serious, and with that to satisfy him he goes back to scrubbing the porch. He’s much calmer now.

I don’t know how many minutes go by with us just working wordlessly again, but after a bit I hear the screen door open behind me. The both of us look up to see my mom smiling down at us, dressed now in one of her many solid-colored skirts paired with a soft, white button-down.

“Marco, it’s so good to see you! Come here, sweet pea!” Mom exclaims, pulling him in for a hug after he gets up and walks over to her. He keeps his hands awkwardly extended, trying not to touch her with his chemical-covered gloves.

“Hey Cosette, how are you doing?” He asks with fond grin, any traces of our argument gone from his expression. Cosette? It’s kind of weird to hear him be on a first name basis with my mom. But then again, he came over a lot while I was gone. I guess they’re super close now. My mom nods her head toward me.

“I haven’t felt this great in a long time...How about you?” She asks, looking ecstatic. I swear she’s smiling bigger than she did the night that I came home. I’m not mad or anything. It’s just funny. Marco’s become the guy in town that everyone likes, just like he always wanted.

“I’m pretty good.” He says softly, eyeing me cautiously, as if he’s telling her a secret or something.

“I’m glad to hear it.” Mom says, hugging him once again. Marco chuckles, looking bashful like a middle school kid who doesn’t want their mom to hug them in front of all their cool friends. I guess I’m the cool friend, and my mom is his as well now. It annoys me a little bit until I remember that she pretty much was his mom when we were kids. His parents weren’t necessarily terrible, but they weren’t exactly the greatest either. His dad was always so busy trying to get more customers for the store and his mom was always off in Shiganshina on business trips. He was over our place so much that he was basically part of the family.

I still remember the day I came out to my mom. Despite trying so hard to be strong, I couldn’t stop myself from breaking out in tears the moment I started trying to tell her. She was panicking, trying to figure out what was wrong. Finally I just blurted it out, blubbering like a damn baby. I told her that I was gay and that I was dating Marco. Mom just chuckled, and then slapped my shoulder lightly. She said, “For the love of all that’s good, don’t scare me like that Jean-boy! I thought you got in trouble with the law or something!” I just stared at her for a second, and then I started laughing too. The two of us just laughed together for the longest time until she put her hand on my knee, wiping a tear from her eye.

“And I’m glad you’re with Marco. He’s the only boy in this town that’s good enough for you. Plus, he’s already practically my son,” she’d added, taking me by surprise.

Looking at them now, talking up a storm, it’s obvious that never changed. My mom is beaming from ear to ear, and I can understand now why she is always so worried about him. She worries about him the same way she’s always worried about me.

“Jean-boy? Hey, Jean!” Mom calls insistently, trying to get me out of the thought-filled daze I apparently fell into.

“Sorry, what’s up?” I ask, standing up from the porch.

“I said I’m making pulled pork for dinner, but it’s going to be in the crock pot for a few more hours. So you and Marco should go get lunch at Springer’s,” she informs me. I can’t help but glance at Marco, who looks fucking petrified. I know what he’s thinking. He thinks I’m going to say no and throw a fit. Part of me really wants to actually, but I’m trying my hardest to be mature about all this. So I just nod and take off my gloves and grab my shitty t-shirt off of the railing.

“M-kay, let me just grab my wallet.” I mumble, squeezing past my mom and into the house. I glance at Marco on my way in and he looks genuinely surprised and maybe a little bit confused. 

When I’m up in my room rummaging around for my wallet and putting on a slightly more presentable t-shirt, I pause. I can hear them outside talking from my window. Being the curious creature that I am, I lean close and listen.

“–are doing well then?” Mom is asking Marco.

“Yeah, I think I actually am right now,” he replies quietly.

“I’m sorry for whatever he said on Sunday. I made sure to tear him a new one yesterday.” Wow, thanks Mom.

“No, it’s okay. I know he’s still hurting.”

“Well so are you dear. But oh, how are things with…?” My mom trails off. The tone of Marco’s voice takes a complete one-eighty when he replies.  
“I’m still ignoring it right now. I don’t want to stir things up.” He sounds hollow.

“Understandable,” my mom says. Deciding I’ve eavesdropped enough, I leave my room and head back downstairs. I hear the way they both go silent when they hear me heading for the front door. I’m not sure what they were talking about at the end there, but as long as it wasn’t me I’m not too concerned. However, I can’t help but wonder who or what it was they were talking about that could make Marco sound so empty in a matter of seconds. When I exit the house and rejoin them on the porch, Marco looks fine, and he smiles awkwardly at me before bidding my mom goodbye.

“Want me to drive?” Marco asks as we walk down the porch steps side by side.

“Yeah, my car is a piece of shit,” I inform him with a nod in its direction. It’s parked by the side of the house, its rust spots dotting the front bumper dully in the sunlight. We get into Marco’s fancy, leather-interior car and rumble up the driveway in wordlessly. 

The drive to along the docks to Springer’s Diner is surprisingly relaxing. I have a habit of staring at the ocean whenever I drive by it. However, since it’s on our left, I end up facing Marco a majority of the time while I stare out at the water through his driver’s door window. I think he feels a little weird about it, but I’m not going to change my habits for him. Besides, he should still remember that I always do this by the sea…I remember all kinds of little things about him still, no matter how hard I’ve tried to forget them. Like yesterday when I saw his store I immediately recalled that orange is his favorite color. And I still remember that he has a habit of always writing in cursive, and that he bites his nails not when he’s nervous or stressed but when he’s bored. And I would bet a hundred bucks that he’ll order a burger at Springer’s when we get there, because that’s all we ever ate when we were teenagers. And if I’ve learned anything from growing up here, it’s that the people don’t change. Time stands still in Jinae.

“I’m sorry I snapped at you earlier,” Marco pipes up eventually, eyeing me cautiously while still trying to watch the road. It takes me a second to remember that we’d sort of been arguing before my mom came out onto the porch. 

“It’s okay, I was kind of asking for it,” I admit. He nods slowly and lets out a long sigh, his hands tightening their grip on the steering wheel for a moment.

“Can I ask you something without you getting mad?”

“Depends what it is,” I answer honestly, crossing my arms. “Go ahead.”

“Were you happy there, in Trost?” Marco asks softly, his eyes now trained solely on the road. My first instinct is to indignantly retort with a solid ‘yes’ but then I stop myself. I really wasn’t happy there at all. Maybe I was hurting slightly less, but I was also unbelievably lonely. It was the worst kind of loneliness too, the kind where I’m surrounded by friends and people who like me, but still missing some core part of me. I know that whatever that was can only be found here in Jinae, because this is where I grew up. However, the misery associated with this place always seemed to outweigh the benefit. At least when I was in Trost, my self-loathing was dull and constant, like a progressive headache. Here in this little town it’s sharp and fluctuating, like a knife in my gut being twisted occasionally whenever the past is drudged up. Like right now.

“I wouldn’t say I was happy. Just less miserable,” I explain reluctantly, my eyes tracing the ocean horizon again. Marco takes a bit to answer, which is fine by me. I’m perfectly content chasing barely visible waves like white pinpricks touching the edge of the sky, while trying to ignore the fact that Marco smells exactly the same as he used to. Don’t know exactly what it is, but he smells sweet, sort of like honeysuckles and vanilla with a hint of coolness to it. I could never decide if that undertone was closer to spearmint or eucalyptus. It’s still tripping me up. Regardless, does he seriously still use the same cologne after all these years? Yeah, things really don’t ever change around here.

“What _would_ make you happy?” Marco asks eventually. I can hear the nervous waver in his voice. It’s weird having this deep of a conversation with him right now. Until two days ago, I hadn’t spoken to him since high school. I don’t even know what we are right now. I wouldn’t call him my friend, because I’ve still yet to forgive him, but it feels like the more I see him the less angry I can be. He just has that kind of personality. It’s the main reason why I didn’t really want to be around him while I’m here in Jinae. But it looks like that whole plan has gone to hell.

“No idea. Guess I’ve never really been happy, so I wouldn’t know.”

“Not even before…?” Marcos trails off, eliciting a groan from me. I face forward in my seat, abandoning my view of the ocean in favor of avoiding Marco’s flitting gaze.

“Okay yeah, I guess I was happy when we were together. But it’s hard to look at it that way now, you know? After what happened,” I admit, digging my fingers into my upper arms. “Why are you asking me this anyway? What about you, huh? You happy here in bum-fuck nowhere?” I retort, a flicker of anger sparking for a moment in me. I’m always like this. Anything can set me off. I don’t keep track of my health, but I can imagine my blood pressure is through the roof because of how pissed I am twenty-four-seven. 

“I was just asking because I’m trying to understand. And no…I’m not.”

“Isn’t this like everything you ever wanted though? You’ve got the business, the wife, and everyone likes you. You’re the friendly neighborhood straight guy. It’s all perfect, right?” I bitch from the passenger seat. I know I’m just being moody and I shouldn’t be mad at his success, but that still doesn’t stop me from saying whatever the hell I want. I’ve never really had a filter or been able to keep my emotions inside. I guess that’s part of the reason I felt so strongly that I had to come out to everyone back in high school. Marco’s the opposite. He’s reserved and he thinks before he speaks. He weighs the pros and cons before making any decision. He’s always calculating, which is probably what makes him such a good businessman. It made him a shitty boyfriend though, that’s for sure.

“Guess it’s just not all it’s cracked up to be,” he answers after a little bit. 

“My mom said your business is doing really well though.”

“It is.”

“Is it your wife?” I press, hoping for at least some kind of reaction. I’m the kind of person that’ll push buttons until an argument sparks. Can’t help it, I’m just an asshole like that who’s always looking to pick a fight.

“No-” Marco cuts himself off with a big sigh. “Can we please just change the subject?”

“So it is her then. Who’d you end up marrying anyway?” I continue on without any regard for his plea to drop it. If he’s got questions for me then I have some for him too.

“It’s not. And Annie…Remember Annie from high school?”

“Leonhart? Short, blonde?” I clarify with my eyebrows raised. When Marco nods in response I can’t keep in the abrupt giggle that pries its way out of my lips. It’s so fucking rude, but I don’t really care around Marco anymore. Never did.

“What? What’s so funny?” He asks, frowning as he slows down the car in front of Springer’s diner. We’re here. Pulling into a parking space, he halts the car but doesn’t turn it off yet. Instead he looks at me hard, an offended look on his face. Not gonna lie, back in the day I always thought it was cute whenever he gave me that look. He looks so affronted, and I always knew I could make it better with a simple ‘just kidding.’

“Nothing. It’s just that she’s literally the exact opposite of me,” I point out as he turns off the car and removes the key from the ignition, holding it in his fist as he folds his hands over each other in his lap. “It’s like, too perfect. You know?”

“What do you-” Marco starts before I cut him off.

“I always say what’s on my mind, and she never says anything at all. Like, to anyone. I’m pushy and pissy and she’s calm a hundred percent of the time. I always wanted to change things and be special and all that. And Annie…well from what I can remember she pretty much always blended in with everybody else,” I finish, noticing the way the atmosphere in the car shifts between us. I’m being too honest, like always. I’m being too forward, and I’m hurting him. Like always. Sometimes I wonder if I’ve become incapable of pity. I know the guy is miserable. I can tell just by looking at him or hearing his voice when he talks. There’s no sense in me digging deeper about it, yet I still dig anyway.

Getting a rise out of Marco is what I do. It’s the one thing that I, and only I, have ever been good at.

“Can we stop psychoanalyzing my wife and get some lunch please?” Marco grumbles eventually, getting out of the car abruptly. I follow him and he leads the way up the rickety steps that bring us up onto the docks.

“Oh yeah, wife. Almost forgot to add that she’s a woman. See? We’re total opposites,” I add with a sly grin, getting him to look back at with a dejected but somehow slightly amused look. Marco shakes his head with a sigh as we cross to the other side of the boardwalk to the diner. He gives me a weary glance momentarily before we go in, his hand hesitating on the door handle.

“Yeah, I guess you are.”

* * *

MARCO’S POV:

I know what Jean’s doing. His age-old patterns aren’t new to me in the least. He’s just trying to upset me because he’s not comfortable with the situation he’s in. Jean needs to feel like he’s on top, and making sure my unhappiness stays at the forefront of my mind is his way of doing that today. Knowing his reasoning doesn’t make it hurt any less, but it’s at least somewhat reassuring.

It feels so wrong even mentioning Annie’s name around him. He’s right; they are total opposites. Annie’s the ocean at night, calm and cold, but with that constant uncertainty lurking within. For the last seven years or so I’ve just been sitting on the beach, watching her slow tide from afar, not even willing to dip a toe in for fear of being dragged in by things I just can’t see in her never-ending darkness. 

But Jean? He’s the sand on the warmest and sunniest of afternoons. His surface is just hot enough to burn when I step out onto it, but it’s such a _relief_ to even be there that I can’t bring myself to do anything about it. I know that the further I go, the smoother and cooler it’ll get, and the easier it’ll be for me to walk. Because no matter how rough his edges are or how much he may lash out, he’s so much more once you get closer to what really matters…I have to remind myself of that once again as I hold the door to Springer’s open for him and he passes through without a thank you.

All eyes are on Jean and me as we enter the diner’s humid interior. It’s a bit disconcerting seeing this place that I’ve always considered my safe haven suddenly change into a observation room where everyone is eyeing us, picking us apart at their leisure. Even a few regulars who usually greet me politely when I come in are silent now. With the older folks, I know it’s because they remember Jean. They remember the “trouble” he caused. But the younger people may just be taken aback by the sheer amount of tattoos on his arms. Today’s the first time I’ve been around him for more than five minutes since he got back, but I’ve already gotten used to the way he looks. I _like_ the way he looks as a matter of fact. Him being shirtless the whole time we were working on the porch earlier also definitely earned my approval, that’s for sure. I mean, I wasn’t staring or anything…well not that much I don’t think.

Luckily, after a moment I find some friendly faces in the room full of judgment. There’s Sasha of course, who is smiling at me from afar through the rectangular, glassless window in the kitchen that overlooks the salad bar. Then to my right, in the circular corner booth, there’s Ricky and Nico, who both wave excitedly at the sight of me. Ricky is still wearing that black jacket again, zipped up to his throat like he’s bracing for cold and not the sticky heat of mid-June.

“Hey Uncle Marco! Come sit with us!” He calls out happily, effectively diffusing the tension in the restaurant. I silently thank him in my head. He seems to be in a decent mood today. I’m actually really glad, because he’s been having a hard time lately it seems. He never opens up to anyone so none of us know exactly what’s been eating at him, but Sasha and Connie worry about it a lot. I do too if I’m being honest with myself.

“That’s Judith’s kid?” Jean asks in a harsh whisper, sounding appalled. Judith, my little sister, is around eight years younger than me, making her twenty-seven now. I can see why Jean would be confused, seeing sixteen-year-old Ricky over there. The math doesn’t add up.

“He’s Sasha and Connie’s son,” I explain, motioning for him to follow me over to the table. He seems reluctant, but he doesn’t voice his distaste, which is all I ask. The last thing Ricky needs right now is a grown man wounding his self-confidence by acting annoyed by his presence. I can handle when Jean acts like that towards me, because one: I know that he’s just like that, and two: I also know I deserve it.

Suddenly, Dalia and Ellie pop up from underneath the table, huge smiles on their flushed faces. I notice Jean’s reluctance skyrocket at the sight of the now-full table of children and I can feel the gravity of his sudden halt behind me in my ribcage. When I turn and look at him hesitating by the hostess desk, it’s not disgust or anger I see, but unabashed fear. His eyes match mine fleetingly, open wide in a way I know very well. How often did we communicate by way of silent exchanges when we were young? Enough that I still know what he’s trying to tell me, that he’s not comfortable being back in Jinae yet, and that he was not oblivious to the hostile atmosphere of the diner when we first walked in. The possibility of adding four children to the long list of people that already hate him isn’t something he can brush off as easily. I think that’s what he’s saying. My automatic instinct, even after all these years, is to take a hold of his hand and assure him that everything will be fine. But I know better than that.

“Those are Sasha and Connie’s girls too. They’re sweet,” I explain, hoping my nervous smile is convincing. I do want Jean to meet them all, because they’re all great kids and they’re all a huge part of my life. But also a small part of me is scared they’ll do or say something to embarrass me in front of him. “And the other boy Nico works in my store.” I add, not receiving any sort of change in Jean’s expression. Sighing, I lean slightly closer so nobody can hear me. His immediate response is a slight recoil away from me, just an inch or so. I ignore it in order to keep myself from feeling hurt.

“They’re not like the kids were when we were in school. They’re really great, I promise,” I whisper, finally getting a curt nod and a reluctant “fine” from Jean. We make our way over to the booth, dodging the judgmental landmines scattered throughout the other tables in the restaurant. I feel like if I misstep or look at anyone too long, there’ll be an explosion. And with how tense Jean and I are with each other currently, I’m in no way prepared to do damage control.

“Hey guys, this is my friend Jean. He grew up here and we went to school together.” As I introduce him to the group, Ellie and Dalia giggle simultaneously and squish unreasonably close to Ricky in order to give us room to sit. He rolls his eyes and elbows Dalia in the ribs lightly, while scooting closer to Nico to escape the girls’ invasion.

“Jean, this is Nico, Ricky, Dalia, and Ellie,” I continue, gesturing to each child while taking a seat to Ellie’s left. Jean sits next to me on the end, looking stiff.

“Hey, nice to meet you guys,” he offers in a surprisingly polite way. Nice start. This might actually go well. Sometimes I forget that Jean can be a decent guy when he’s around people he doesn’t hate. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen his nice side.

“Nice to meet you too!” Nico replies happily. “I think we kind of met in the store the other day, right?” he adds, smiling in his all-too friendly way. Nico doesn’t know who Jean is, at least I don’t think he does. There’s no way he could understand the connection between his father and Jean. 

“Yeah, that was me,” Jean answers, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly.

“What’s that on your arm?” Dalia pipes up suddenly, leaning over the table to look closer at Jean’s right forearm.

“Those are tattoos,” Jean answers softly, taken a bit off guard by her sudden question. Dalia rolls her eyes in response, scoffing at him.

“I know what _tattoos_ are. I want to know what they’re tattoos _of_ ,” she frowns heavily, scrutinizing his arm. “That one. What’s that?” she asks, prodding his skin near his wrist.

“Oh, that’s a Luna moth.”

“Why’d you get a tattoo of a moth?” Dalia sounds genuinely concerned for Jean’s well being and I almost chuckle a little at the sight of her leaned over the table with a finger jabbed into his arm, and him just staring at her like she’s the most frightening person he’s ever met. Her long braid trails down on the tabletop, brushing close to Ricky’s coffee.

“I was pretty dru–” Jean halts himself mid sentence, shooting me an apologetic look. “I mean, I just think Luna moths are pretty. Don’t you?”

“I don’t know, I’ve never seen one.” Dalia cocks her head to the side. “Yours is pretty cool though.”

“They only come out at night,” Jean explains to her. Immediately, Dalia retracts herself from leaning over the table and instead practically lays on Ellie to smile up at me broadly.

“Uncle Marco can we go running at night this weekend? Pleeeease? I wanna see a Luna moth!” she begs, folding her hands as if she’s in prayer. I can’t help but laugh at that. Dalia has two settings, completely underwhelmed and way overly excited. It looks like Jean’s tattoo has gotten her into the latter state. Before I can answer, Ricky pipes up from across the table.

“Not on Saturday though, because he’s taking Nico boating,” he warns her, earning a pouty face in return.

“Fine, Sunday then, okay?”

“Sunday’s good. Just check with your parents first,” I grin down at her. She sits up, shooting Ricky a victorious glare as if she’s beaten him at something. I’ll never really understand sibling rivalry like they do. Judith was so young compared to me that fighting or arguing with her would have just seemed like bullying. When I was eighteen she was nine. I guess it’s the same way with Dalia and Ellie though. Despite how erratic Dalia may seem, she’s always keeping an eye out for her little sister. As if to prove my point, Dalia takes a second to move Ellie’s cup away from the edge of the table so it doesn’t fall on her.

Soon the waitress comes and takes our orders. For some reason, I take extra notice to the fact that Jean orders a wrap instead of the burger. It shouldn’t matter, and it _doesn’t_ matter, but it still makes me miss the old days. We grew up together ordering the same thing from here almost every day: a cheeseburger with fries, a coke, and a water. It wasn’t original in any way and I’m sure sometimes we got a little sick of the same meal, but it was just our thing. By the time we were fourteen the workers stopped bothering to take our orders. We’d just sit down at a table and our food would be there in fifteen minutes because everyone knew us so well. I’ve always stuck to that habit.

If Jean notices my order, he doesn’t say anything. I’d say he’s being unusually quiet, but I honestly don’t really know what the usual is for him anymore. It’s been too long, and I don’t know how much he’s changed. I know I’ve changed a lot, but Jean is a mystery right now.

“Can Ricky come with us on Saturday?” Nico asks me after the waitress retreats back to the kitchen.

“Yeah of course,” I answer, to which Ricky and Nico beam excitedly at each other. They remind me so much and how Jean and I were at their age. I mean, obviously it’s a little different because the two of us were dating behind the scenes, but their friendship is similar to ours. They spend almost all their time together, and Nico seems to be the only person Ricky even looks happy around. They’ve been best friends since they were in kindergarten together, and they act as each other’s lighthouses. They don’t let each other get lost.

I miss that. I miss it so much. Ever since Jean left I’ve been wandering around trying to find my way back to the shore. I never fully adjusted to his absence. 

Glancing over at him, I notice his suddenly disgruntled expression. He’s looking at Nico now, eyeing him carefully…Oh. Nico looks nearly identical to his father. Jean must be starting to see Reiner in him. Reiner was the main driving factor in his decision to leave Jinae. He scared me back then and he still kind of does now, but in a different way. The kids are all talking to each other so I take the opportunity to assure Jean quietly.

“He’s not like his dad,” I whisper, leaning slightly closer to him. He doesn’t answer for a bit, and I can see the gears turning as he tries to deal with all the emotions of our senior year of high school reemerging at the sight of Nico across the table. Eventually he sighs, shooting me a fleeting glance.  
“Okay,” he breathes. If there’s one thing Jean is bad at, it’s hiding his emotions. He’s always worn his heart boldly on his sleeve, which was one of the things I liked about him originally. One of many things.

Today is…actually nice. Despite the small argument we had earlier, I’m just glad I’m getting to spend time with him. I never thought this would happen again, but here we are. For a few moments, I just take in our familiar surroundings. Things may be different now, but Springer’s doesn’t change. The air is thick as usual, and the little fan by the hostess desk is still struggling loudly to combat the humidity. Through the open windows the ocean can be heard close by, along with crying gulls and the sea breeze that just can’t seem to make its way inside this poor old building. Jean and I grew up to the sound of diner chatter and the texture of flat Coca-Cola because we spent too much time talking instead of eating.

It’s easy to look back on those times fondly, but not without the bitter aftertaste of our relationship’s undoing. There have been so many times over the years when I’ve tried to convince myself that it was Jean’s fault, hoping it’d make me feel better, but that’s only half true. Jean coming out was a beginning of it all, yes. But I don’t think I could have handled it any worse than I did. The fear of people finding out about us, and about _me_ , took over my life. I completely shut down, practically refusing to talk to anyone, paranoid that people would put two and two together because of how close Jean and I were. I even had to stop talking to him eventually…mostly at the bidding of my parents.

Reiner had always been a source of unhappiness in our lives, but once Jean came out, it was game over. He made it his personal mission to make Jean’s life hell. And as angry as it made me to see it happen, it also terrified me because I was a coward. Reiner was a bully, and I’d spent a good portion of my life making sure I wasn’t one of his targets. As selfish as it was, the thought of him hurting me the way he hurt Jean was something I couldn’t bear. So I did nothing. While Reiner and the rest of town rejected Jean, I stayed on the sidelines. I wasn’t any better than everyone else. 

There were a few times that we met in secret, when I tried to explain to Jean why I was being the way I was. My parents didn’t want me to spend time with him anymore or talk to him, and they made it very clear what they thought about gay people. I was still in high school, and the only future I’d prepared for was a job in my dad’s shop. If I had gotten kicked out, I would have had nothing.

But I guess that wouldn’t have been any different from Jean’s situation once he left for Trost. All he had was a barely working car and a few hundred bucks. My justifications for what I did don’t make it okay. I’ve felt guilty about the whole thing every day since he came out. Even now, seeing him make small talk with Nico and Ricky with a semi-genuine polite grin on his face, I feel terrible.

At some point before our food comes, Ellie finds her way into my lap, interrupting my thoughts. It’s for the better, since I was starting to think myself into a bad place again. Shoving her face into my shirt, her eyes half-close. It’s about her naptime now that I think of it. Nico’s lunch break at the shop is at the same time though. I understand why Ricky dragged the girls out of the house with him to grab lunch with his friend, but poor Ellie is falling asleep at the table. I pat her upper back gently and after a few moments her breaths turn slow and deep against me, a telltale sign that she’s asleep already. It always amazes me how quickly children can fall asleep like that. I feel like I haven’t gotten a full night’s sleep in years, and yet she can conk out right in the middle of a crowded diner during its lunch rush.

When I look back up, Jean is staring at me with a gentle expression, one I had yet to see on him since he came back. Thinking back, Jean always had a soft spot for kids, as contradictory as it seems to his personality. That’s probably why he cares what they think of him, and why he’s actually trying to be nice right now. I wasn’t really a kid person until Ricky was born. I still remember it, like a vivid, rose-colored dream. At only nineteen years old, I was at the hospital with Connie and Sasha. When she handed Ricky to me, I fell in love with his wide, hazel eyes, and the way his little fist held onto my fingertips. He had Connie’s mischievous smile before his teeth even came in. 

There were so many nights once they were able to go home and that I stayed over their house to help. Due to her young age and low weight, Sasha had an extremely rough pregnancy and delivery. So Sasha was sort of out of commission for a little while after the birth. She still spent a majority of her time with Ricky, but whenever it came to the dirty work or anything involving standing up, Connie and I took care of it so she could rest and recover.

Through all of that I fell head-over-heels for the life of a parent. I’ve wanted it since then and I still do. I wonder how Jean feels about stuff like that now. It’s a weird thing to think about, but I wonder about his opinion on most things. He’s so different now I can’t keep track of what about him has changed and what’s still the same.

When our food comes, I slowly wake Ellie up, letting her slide back over to her seat. Dalia, who had started interrogating Jean about his tattoos again at some point, quiets down to combat her chicken tenders in silence. As I’m sipping on my coke, Nico strikes up conversation with Jean now that he’s been released from Dalia’s clutches.

“So Jean, Marco said you grew up here?”

“Mh-hm,” Jean answers through a mouthful of spinach wrap.

“Where did you move to?” Nico asks, his voice genuine. Jean swallows his food and takes a quick sip of water.

“I ended up in Trost,” he answers, his gaze flitting to me for barely half a second. I notice Ricky’s eyes light up and he leans forward on the table, his hoodie strings dangerously close to grazing his plate of food.

“You lived in Trost? What’s it like there?” he asks, a sense of urgency in his voice. It’s probably the most excited I’ve heard him in weeks.

“Yeah, seventeen years there. It’s pretty nice. There are a lot of people and they’re all really chill about everything. Lots of restaurants, and stuff to do too. I like it.”

“Oh man, I’ve always wanted to live in Trost,” Ricky muses, looking distant for a moment.

“How come?” Jean asks, surprising me with his interest in Ricky’s thoughts.

“Because it freaking sucks here,” he answers matter-of-factly. Jean gets a laugh out of that, a completely genuine, happy laugh. It’s the kind where he tilts his head back and has to catch his breath afterwards. I smile involuntarily. I didn’t know how badly I needed to hear one of those from him again until now. I’d thank Ricky if I could.

Nico, Ricky, and Jean continue to talk about Trost for a while, and I find myself silent for most of the remainder of the meal. Ellie ends up asleep on my lap again and Dalia becomes engrossed in another one of her books. If the kid isn’t running, she’s usually reading. She so smart, curious, and athletic. She could be whatever she wants when she grows up. I’m almost jealous of her well-roundedness at her young age. I don’t really remember having any specific talents. The only interesting thing about me at her age was the fact that I was friends with Jean. He was the boy who always had something to say. And while he was abrasive and hard to get along with towards most people, everyone had a weird sort of respect for him, until senior year at least…

But I’ve already thought about that more than enough today. I’ve got to do my best to stop living in the past, or else things will never get better between Jean and me. So I bring myself back into the present, conveniently at the same moment that Nico makes a jarring request.

“You should totally come boating with us on Saturday!” He’s talking to Jean, who looks beyond surprised at the invitation. In the matter of a few seconds, I see so many subtle emotions flash across Jean’s face. He looks suspicious, and what looks like exasperated, but then thoughtful and contemplative. Then he looks almost embarrassed when he finally shoots a look at me, his mouth just slightly open, a question of permission lying dormant on his lips. He doesn’t ask, because his pride would never let him, but he does have a certain kind of regretful longing shining in his always-intense eyes. I don’t know why he wants to go, or even why he can stand the idea of spending any more time around me, but I smile nonetheless and nod almost imperceptibly.

“Yeah, it sounds fun,” Jean finally says, earning wide grins from Nico and Ricky. I can tell they already like him. I think for them, seeing an adult who is confident yet still so different from everyone else in this town is refreshing. I can see how he could seem cool. He honestly is. Jean is cool, whether I want to admit it or not.

The notion of spending Saturday with him has me nervous and excited. I’m nervous because I wasn’t expecting things to go so well today. I know the more time we spend together, the closer we’ll get to having an actual conversation about what happened between us. I don’t know if I’m quite ready yet to fully get into it with him on the subject. Just earlier today one little quip from him while we were moving the chairs got me entirely too worked up. It’s hard trying to continue keeping my emotions in check when I’m with him. For years I’ve kept almost all my thoughts and feelings to myself, which was what I needed to do for my own sanity. But now that Jean is here again, the one person I never held anything back with, it’s tough to keep some of these pent-up emotions from spilling out. I know if we get into the nitty-gritty of what happened, it’ll be an argument. I’ll yell and I’ll cry, because out of all things in this world, I only get upset like that about us. I don’t know if Jean would even want to deal with me when I’m like that.

However, he’s the only person who’s ever dealt with it before. Maybe there’s hope that he’ll care enough to listen. After all, he wants to go boating with us this weekend. So Jean’s not completely apathetic towards me…Well either that or he just _really_ likes boats.

 

* * *

The rest of lunch goes smoothly, and when we leave Jean is silent on the drive back to his house. He seems embarrassed, like he wishes he’d been able to keep up his hateful façade at the restaurant. I know how he is. Jean likes to stay angry.

“They’re not that bad, right?” I ask while we’re pulling down the long driveway at the Kirstein residence. I can hear the gravel kicking up against the bottom of my car. I don’t mind. Jean smirks but refuses to look at me when he answers.

“Yeah, I guess they’re pretty cool kids.”

“Even Nico?” I press for some reason, slowing the car to a stop in front of his house. Jean laughs at that, throwing a glance my way finally.

“You know, I would have figured that any kid of Reiner’s would be the spawn of Satan…but he’s cool too,” he chuckles, resting his arm on the middle rest between us. The Luna moth stares up at me. “I’m surprised a girl could stomach Reiner enough to have a kid with him though. Like seriously, fucking how?” Jean continues, his words suddenly reminding me about the weight of the world still pressing heavily on my shoulders, no matter how light it seemed today when I was with him. “I mean honestly, how bottom-of-the-barrel can you get? I’d even fuck old man Pixis before Reiner.”

And there it is, the truth that I’d been trying to ignore for months. Annie, who apparently is scraping the _bottom of the barrel_ , is still choosing Reiner over me, her husband. Although I guess when you’ve screwed up your life as badly as I have, you don’t get to be in the barrel at all. You don’t get to be loved…You don’t get to be happy.

Jean continues to laugh to himself as he gets out of the car. It takes me a bit to get out and follow him. I’m so wrapped up in my thoughts that eventually he turns around halfway up the porch steps, eyeing me with a raised eyebrow.

“You don’t have to keep helping with the porch if you don’t want to. I know you just wanted to get a day with me,” Jean calls out, his voice slightly muffled through the car glass. I look at him, knowing my face looks blank. His hand is on his hip, and he looks slightly amused.

Of course I want to keep helping. I want to stay on the porch with him as long as I can, surrounded by the smells of paint thinner, sanded wood, and my own sweated through t-shirt. I want to hear his voice while he talks to me, even when he’s bringing up things neither of us really wants to talk about. And I want to hear the sound of his heavy breathing and violent scrubbing when I inadvertently say something that angers him back into silence. All of that sounds good to me.

It sounds way better than sitting at home, using all my energy to avoid my wife as she meanders around the house in her ghost-like manner. Jean is loud even when he’s not saying a thing, but Annie is soundless in everything she does. The way she walks, the way she opens and closes the front door, and the way her phone lights up with texts without so much as a vibration. It’s all hushed, like she’d do anything to keep me from even noticing her existence at this point. With Jean, he wants me to see and hear everything he’s thinking, even if it’s just anger and regret right now. At least it’s something.

It’s been a long time since I’ve had something.

“No, I want to help. Let’s get back to it!” I call out, getting out of the car and following him back up onto the porch.

 

* * *

That evening, when I get home, Annie is in the kitchen putting together a small dinner for herself. She’s in sweatpants and one of my old high school track shirts, which I assume is indication that she won’t be going out to see Reiner tonight, which is a bit of a consolation. We meet eyes briefly when I come in to grab myself glass of water.

“You smell terrible,” she tells me eventually with a quiet laugh, shaking her head slightly as she turns back to face the stove on the kitchen island. I certainly do, but I got so used to it during the day that I’ve gone nose-blind to it.

“Sorry, I was helping Jean paint Mrs. Kirstein’s porch today,” I explain, gulping down my water even though Jean’s mom was shoving lemonade our way the whole afternoon.

“Oh yeah, I heard Jean was back in town from some people at work,” she responds, his name sounding like profanity on her lips. I frown, thinking about what he said today in the car: _Bottom of the barrel._ It makes me feel rotten.

“Yeah it was great seeing him again,” I tell her in a moment of surprising truth, trying to move past the feeling.

“Mm-hm, just be careful with that. People like to talk,” Annie warns, putting away some of her cooking ingredients and taking her meal over to the kitchen table. She’s the only one who ever eats there anymore. We never have anyone over, and I always tend to just eat on the couch since it’s become my main base in the house. When she sits down, I stare at the back of her blonde head, angry and dark feelings rising up my throat. I want to say something. I want to tell her that if she’s allowed to sneak around with Reiner behind my back, then I should be able to hang out with my old best friend for one day without criticism, whether he’s gay or not. But I don’t say anything, because I’d never have the bravery to tell her that I know what she’s been doing. It just doesn’t work that way with me for some reason. Instead I just mutter a short “I know” and head into the living room. I decide I won’t let her know that Jean is coming boating with Nico, Ricky, and me on Saturday. It’s none of her business anyway. She lost the right to know about my life when she started hiding hers.

 

* * *

The rest of my week is extremely busy at the shop. June will be ending in just a week and a half, and our biggest event of the year will be right after that. July 4th is quite the celebration in Jinae. An all-day festival is hosted by all the businesses on the docks, giving it a boardwalk-feel for the whole day. Bodt’s Boating rents out tons of boats that day to the tourists from the surrounding cities and towns that come to enjoy Jinae’s surprisingly large occasion. However, the most important thing we do is take the ferry out on the water, packed full of as many people it can fit, to watch the fireworks. A nearby company volunteers every year to do the fireworks show from the water. The view from out on the ferry is amazing. I wouldn’t trade it for anything.  
Business is great around Independence Day, but it comes with a price. The stress and the extra amount of work that goes into pulling everything off is a lot for a small company like mine. This week we already have people starting to preorder tickets onto the boat for that night, and Armin, Nico, and I have been working diligently to figure out our decoration plans for both the ferry and the store.

I usually love this time of year solely because of how busy we are. The opportunity for distraction from my life is always welcomed, except this year. I haven’t seen or heard from Jean all week. It’s not like I was expecting him to come by or anything, but I hope he’s not getting too much done on the porch without me. I really enjoyed helping him and I’d like to do it again. It’s dumb that I need an excuse to see him and I don’t have the courage to just go over there and say hi. However, I don’t think we’re anywhere near that kind of friendship yet, if we even have one at all. 

We were getting along fairly well by the end of the day on Tuesday. Dinner with him and Mrs. Kirstein was absolutely wonderful. Jean even seemed like he was in a somewhat good mood at that point. We got to talk about things besides me screwing him over or him hating Jinae and me. That’s a step in the right direction, right? We even finalized our plans for Saturday. He’ll be meeting us here at the shop at noon, and he even promised to bring some food for lunch. It’s not a huge gesture, considering I know for a fact it’ll all be food that Mrs. Kirstein prepared, but it’s still something that he was the one who suggested it in the first place. I think Jean may be trying as well to bridge this gap between us, but I can’t tell for sure. 

Regardless, I’m a wound up ball of energy by the time Friday morning rolls around. I spend the majority of the afternoon taking an extended break to clean my personal boat, the one we’ll be taking out tomorrow. It’s tethered a bit farther down the docks from the shop, where I keep the vessels that are in need of repair. I like to keep the best looking boats as close to the shop as possible, to catch people’s eyes. My workers have been coming and going periodically throughout the day, but for the most part I’ve had the morning to myself over here.

“What’s got you so smiley?” Ymir, our repairwoman, asks me around noon as she hops onto one of the rental boats tethered next to mine, wielding her tune-up kit. I stand up straight, gripping my cloth tight in my hand as I halt in the middle of my polishing. She surveys the deck of boat, sporting a low ponytail as usual and one of our orange “Bodt’s Boating” t-shirts with the sleeves rolled up over her tan shoulders.

“I’m taking the boys out boating tomorrow,” I inform her. I like Ymir a lot. She’s the best repairperson we’ve ever had, and she is also one of the least judgmental people in this town. She didn’t grow up here like most of us did, but instead only moved here a little over a year ago. Nobody knows her story, but I have a feeling she came here in an effort to get away from whatever her life was before. Most people run away from small towns, but she ran here instead. Somehow, despite how prejudice people in this town are towards outsiders, she’s made herself a nice little notch in the community. In her unique way, she’s found ways to fit in and even be liked for her quirky and blunt personality.

“You’re taking Jean too. Bold move,” Ymir says, giving me a perfect example of that bluntness I was just thinking about. I feel my body freeze up. She wasn’t even there for what happened in high school. And she’s never even met Jean.

“How did you…?”

“Nico won’t shut the hell up about tomorrow, or how _cool_ your friend is,” Ymir cackles, crouching her tall frame down to open up her toolbox on the deck of the rental boat. Of course, that makes sense. It’s not like it’s a secret, and to Nico Jean is no different from anyone else in town. There’d be no logical reason for him to keep it a secret. “And I know about the whole thing with Jean back when you were in high school because all the old fogeys in this town can’t stop talking shit on him long enough to catch their damn breath.”

I sigh heavily, leaning against the portside gunwale and letting my cloth rest on the ledge. Her golden eyes glint playfully as she taps a wrench on her shoulder absentmindedly, the freckles on her sunbaked skin rivaling mine.

“Were you guys a thing? I mean nobody’s been saying that, but I have a hunch,” she suddenly asks, not even giving me a chance to respond to her previous comment. Eyes widening and stomach dropping, I immediately feel myself begin to sweat and I wonder just how much of the horror I’m starting to experience is showing on my face.

“A hunch?” I ask dryly, trying to nonchalantly raise an eyebrow like Jean always does. It doesn’t help. I can barely breath. Glancing around, I make sure nobody is walking nearby on the docks.

“You could call it lesbian’s intuition,” Ymir says with a wink, checking the cleat that is closest to her on the boat. She frowns after feeling it, reaching down and coming back up with a screwdriver. I stare at her for a moment, remembering that little detail about her. She hasn’t told many people in town because she knows how people talk, but she revealed it to me the very day she came in for her interview for the job. Ymir told me that she needed steady pay and a new start, and that getting fired later on if I ever found out she was gay wasn’t something she had the patience for. Like I said, she’s always been blunt.

“You don’t have to answer. I was just curious,” Ymir assures me, tightening the screws on the cleat, testing it again with her fist and grinning victoriously. I hesitate, not knowing what to say. I feel like it’s 1997 again…flashbacks of my parents interrogating me pop up behind my eyes when I close them in an effort to calm myself down. I can’t remember how many times the words I’m not gay came out of my mouth that school year.

The stress of anyone finding out nearly destroyed me. I can still hear my mom screaming at me, telling me that if she found out I was lying she’d kick me out. My dad was silent to me…for months. I could have lost everything then, and I still could now. This business, the only good thing I have left in my life that is actually mine, could be ripped out from under my feet in one fell swoop. If people found out about Jean and me, even if it was years ago, they wouldn’t be caught dead spending their money here. In a town as small as this, reputation is absolutely everything.

However, that’s when it hits me. I know perfectly well why I’m scared to tell people, but I knew my reasoning just as well back then too. It didn’t matter if I was justified. I hurt Jean in the process of saving my own skin. If I’m going to try being friends with Jean again, I need to be different. I have to be braver.

The bottom line is this: if Jean hated the old Marco, then I need to show him the new one. I know I’ve changed a lot with age, and I should prove that not only to him, but to myself as well. So, taking the deepest breath I can muster, I open my eyes and lean on the ledge of my boat, looking straight at Ymir.

“Yeah, we were a thing,” I finally respond quietly and anticlimactically, getting a surprised look from Ymir in response. Her mouth hangs open slightly in shock for a moment or two before a wide smile comes onto her face.

“Well, it’s nice to know I’m not alone here. Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone.”

“Thanks, I appreciate that,” I answer, trying to get my heart to slow down a bit. That was terrifying, but actually a little exhilarating. I feel like I just crossed a line, a limitation that was holding me back. I’m making progress. No matter how small my steps might be, it’s definitely true that I am a changing man. Who knows? Maybe next time I go to Springer’s I’ll order a different meal or something…Eh, probably not. I’ll work my way up to that one. For now I’ll ride on the high of this personal victory, which will undoubtedly carry me into tomorrow, when I’ll get to see Jean again. Ricky and Nico will be there too, two of my favorite kids in the world.

Suddenly an afterthought pops into my head and I turn back to Ymir, who’s on her way back to the engine of her boat.

“Hey,” I start, getting her to pause and glance at me. “How did your lesbian intuition know about me and him?” I ask, getting a raucous laugh from her. She puts her hands on her slim hips and gives me a knowing look.

“You’re shitting me right? You’re not sneaky Marco,” Ymir points out, taking a moment to fish a stick of gum out of her pocket. She’s been trying to quit smoking lately. “Everyone who works here knows you took off on Tuesday to hang out with him. And you’ve been smiles all week since then.”

“I have _not!_ ” I can’t help but laugh while I defend myself. She’s right, she caught me. I guess I’m not as sneaky as I thought, and I should have known Nico would tell everyone about Jean. The boy looked at him like he was meeting a celebrity.

“Oh shut up, you literally have been on cloud nine dude. It’s actually pretty creepy in my opinion since you usually don't show emotions and shit,” Ymir taunts me, popping the gum into her mouth and chewing loudly. “But I guess now that I know why, it’s a little cute. A little.”

Smiling at her, I realize that she’s right. This is the first good week I’ve had in years, and being honest with Ymir about it just made it all even better. I knew as soon as Sasha told me that Jean was back in town two weeks ago that it would change everything for me. I’m not fooling myself into thinking that my life is suddenly going to be great, but Jean being here makes me feel like it could at least be okay. That’s all I’ve really been wishing for all these years, to be okay.

 

* * *

_Jinae: April 11th, 1997_

_It’s almost two in the morning when I see Jean trudging across the sand towards the lifeguard chair I’m perched on, my arms wrapped around my legs. I left a note in his locker earlier today begging him to meet me here at our spot at midnight. It’s no surprise he made me wait. I deserve it for making him come out here in the first instead of having the balls to speak to him in public._

_“What do you want?” Jean asks, stopping at the bottom of the chair. He makes no move to climb up and sit next to me. Looking down, I can barely see his face in the moonless night but can still hear the anger in his voice. Getting up, I climb down to stand in front of him. My bare feet are cold in the sand, damp from this afternoon’s rain. I can see him better now, and can just barely make out his fading black eye. I’d give anything to be able to hold him until his pain disappeared…but we’re past that now._

_“I…I just wanted to make sure you’re okay,” I practically whisper, my voice refusing to cooperate with me. Jean folds his arms and scoffs, letting me know what’s coming before he even says it._

_“Well I’m not, so there you go. You happy?” Jean retorts, his tone more than acidic. I’m frozen there, staring at him in his oversized pajama pants and hoodie. He’s right; he looks miserable. I want to ask if there is something I can do, but I already know there is. I could come out too and take some of the heat off of him, or I could at least defend him when people talk about him or come after him. Least of all, I could at least talk to him at school. But that’s just not possible with the threat of my parents’ consequences hanging over my head._

_“I’m sorry, my parents–” Jean cuts me off before I can finish._

_“I’m tired of hearing about your parents Marco,” he exclaims, throwing his hands in the air in frustration. “The fact that you had me come out here in the middle of the fucking night to talk proves that it’s not just your parents.” I don’t know what to say to that, so I just look at him desperately. I want him to understand my side, to see the direness of my situation. This whole thing has put me on ice thinner than I’ve ever been on, and any step I take towards Jean at this point will send me cracking through, plunging into the freezing water._

_“I didn’t need you to keep being my boyfriend. I know I’m a lot to handle,” Jean sighs, the expression on his face nearly killing me. He looks angry, but also so unbelievably hurt. “But I needed you to keep being my friend.”_

_“I’m trying,” I argue, ignoring my better judgment and reaching out involuntarily, setting my hand gently on his upper arm._

_“No, you’re not,” he asserts, his voice cracking with the inevitable onslaught of tears that I know is coming. “Just…leave me alone, okay? If you’re not going to help me, don’t bother me at all. You just make it harder,” he finishes, delivering his final blow. I retract my hand, frowning at him in disbelief._

_“Jean, come on,” I start, already knowing that it won’t do any good. I know things are bad, but we’ve had so many fights over the years that deep down I just sort of assumed we’d get through it like always. I never imagined it would get like this, and that it would hurt so much._

_“I’m serious. Don’t talk to me unless you’re actually going to help me. I’m done wasting time on you.” That one stings, and I know it does for Jean too by the way I can hear him holding his tears back with a tight throat. We stare at each other for a long time. Maybe it’s because I know this is the end of our friendship, or maybe just because we want to get one last look at each other. Either way, Jean ends it after a few endless moments by wordlessly turning around and walking back to his house._

_I’m motionless in the dark, watching him go until he fades into the black expanse of the beach. Eventually I sit down in the sand, leaning against a wooden support post of the lifeguard chair. I’d stare up at the stars but it’s too cloudy, so I just shut my eyes._

_This is really it. He’s officially done with me. It’s hard to think that a little over a month ago we were happy. I don’t even know who to blame. My first instinct for a while was to blame Jean, because everything was fine until he came out. He ruined everything…but I guess I did too. I don’t even know who I am anymore. Ignoring Jean and straight up lying to my family? That’s not me. I’m Marco Bodt, Jean Kirstein’s best friend. That’s who I’ve been my entire life._

_So who am I now?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So YEAH, it's been about 5 months. I'm so sorry everyone! As usual, school is kicking my ass lol. Thanks for sticking around with me and waiting so long!
> 
> I hope everyone enjoyed Jean getting to meet the kids, because I loooooved writing that part. In case you were wondering, yes, I'm going to include Nico and the Springer kids a lot in this story. I've never really had OCs before so I wasn't expecting to fall head over heels for every single one of them! They are important for the plot though, because to Marco they are one of his only sources of happiness and they make him feel important. To Jean, they're the first people he's met in Jinae that don't already have pre-formed opinions about him. So enjoy them, because I sure do <3
> 
> Also yes, I've started having a theme for each POV in each chapter. I literally have these super lengthy playlists on spotify for both Jean and Marco lol. I'm trying to choose songs that reflect their thoughts/emotions during the chapter. You'll get to know my weird ass taste in music and I just like doing it, so yeah that's a thing I'm doing now.
> 
> Thanks again for reading!!!


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